Project Gutenberg's The Making of William Edwards, by Mrs. G. Linnaeus Banks

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Title: The Making of William Edwards
       or The Story of the Bridge of Beauty

Author: Mrs. G. Linnaeus Banks

Release Date: December 5, 2011 [EBook #38212]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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THE MAKING OF WILLIAM EDWARDS

[Illustration:

Yours Faithfully
Isabella Banks]




PUBLISHER'S NOTE TO POPULAR EDITION


This book appeared originally as 'The Bridge of Beauty.' But on its
re-issue in popular form it has been thought well to indicate in the new
title the purport of the story.

[Illustration: THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING FARMER.

_Frontispiece._] [_See page 16._]




THE MAKING OF WILLIAM EDWARDS

OR

_THE STORY OF THE BRIDGE OF BEAUTY_


BY
MRS. G. LINNAEUS BANKS

AUTHOR OF 'GOD'S PROVIDENCE HOUSE' 'THE MANCHESTER MAN'
'IN HIS OWN HAND' ETC. ETC.


_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. DEWAR_


SECOND EDITION


LONDON:
ANDREW MELROSE
16 PILGRIM STREET, E.C.




CONTENTS.

CHAP.                                   PAGE

    I. A THUNDERSTORM                     13

   II. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN               25

  III. A BOY'S WILL                       36

   IV. PAYING THE RENT                    46

    V. THE NEW INMATE                     57

   VI. LOST                               70

  VII. THE YOUNG PLAGUE                   83

 VIII. THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS            95

   IX. THE BAFFLED AGENT                 105

    X. FRIENDS AND BROTHERS              118

   XI. A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER             129

  XII. CAERPHILLY CASTLE                 141

 XIII. MAN PROPOSES                      152

  XIV. WHERE IS EVAN?                    162

   XV. A STOP-GAP                        179

  XVI. DISCOVERIES                       193

 XVII. PROPER TOOLS                      207

XVIII. IN THE GRIP OF A STRONG HAND      219

  XIX. WITH GRANDFATHER'S GOLD           232

   XX. IN THE NICK OF TIME               249

  XXI. THE FINGER OF GOD                 264

 XXII. A BLIND INSTRUCTOR                280

XXIII. BRIDGE-BUILDING                   298

 XXIV. PONT-Y-PRIDD                      313

POSTSCRIPT                               333




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                           PAGE

THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING FARMER               _Frontispiece._

THE RIDERLESS HORSE FOUND ITS WAY HOME                       17

MOUNTED ON THE LOW WALL, ON HIS WAY TO EVAN'S SHOULDERS      67

LYING IN THE MIDST OF THE HOARY CIRCLE OF GREY STONES        79

'SO THAT IS HOW YOU PROPOSE TO CARRY ON YOUR FARM?'
HE SAID, WITH A SNEER                                       107

HE TURNED AND SHOOK HIS WHIP-HAND AT THE CHILD              111

THERE WAS SOMETHING RATHER MYSTERIOUS ABOUT HER CARGO       165

'YOUR RENT WILL BE ADVANCED TEN POUNDS PER ANNUM
AFTER THIS DATE,' HE SAID                                   175

HE FOUND MR. MORRIS SEATED AT THE TABLE AS WELL AS
THE VICAR                                                   243

LONG-LOST EVAN HAD COME BACK                                253

BLINDED BY PASSION, HE SPURRED HIS HORSE TO THE
UNCERTAIN FORD                                              269

ELAINE PARRY                                                293

ONLY HIS WIFE CAN ENTER INTO HIS FEELINGS, AND
ALLEVIATE HIS BITTER HUMILIATION                            325

THE BRIDGE OF BEAUTY, 1755                                  331


[Illustration: CAERPHILLY CASTLE.]




THE MAKING OF WILLIAM EDWARDS.




CHAPTER I.

A THUNDERSTORM.


It was a sad day for Mrs. Edwards, of Eglwysilan,[1] when her well-loved
husband, on his return from Llantrissant market one sultry Friday in the
autumn of 1721, in attempting to cross the River Taff, failed to observe
its rising waters, missed the ford, and was carried down the stream, a
drowning man.

Only that morning he had driven a goat and a score of sheep across in
safety, the sheep following their agile and sure-footed leader, as he
sprang from one to another of the out-cropping masses of rock, which,
scattered in mid-stream, served alike as stepping-stones and as
indications when the river was fordable, as it generally was in a dry
summer.

But the Taff, born in a marsh, and running through a deep vale, is given
to rise as swiftly as the traditional Welshman's temper. Many are its
seen and unseen feeders among the mountain steeps; and, although there
had been but a light passing shower in sheltered hill-side Llantrissant
that day, farther north a heavy thunderstorm had burst in a deluge over
bogs and hills; and down from countless rills and rivulets the waters
had come flashing in leaps and bounds, to swell the tribute brooks and
rivers alike bore to the Taff as vassals to a sovereign.

William Edwards was as steady a man as any farmer in Glamorganshire, but
whenever a group of them got together, at fair or market, there great
pitchers of _cwrw da_[2] were certain to be also, either to cement
friendship or to clinch a bargain, and the beverage was uncommonly
heady.

Now bargaining was a long and thirsty process, and, although he was
thrifty and the ale was dear, when Edwards had completed the sale of
goat and sheep to his satisfaction, he had imbibed a fair share of the
common beverage; not, however, so much as to prevent other huckstering
and bargaining on account of his wife. The stockings knitted on the farm
had to be sold, or bartered for needles, pins, tapes, or shoe-latchets;
he had to purchase a sieve, a supply of soap and candles, a pair of
Sunday shoes for his little girl, and a couple of tin cans.

By the time these were thrust into his saddle-bags, the sieve and
tinware secured to the pommel of his saddle so as to balance each other
above the bags, and a final draught of _cwrw_ swallowed as a refresher
for his journey, the afternoon had slipped nearly away, and with it one
or two impatient neighbours on whom he had depended for company on the
rough, circuitous road over the mountain ridge to the fords.

Rough road indeed it was, little better than a beaten track worn by men
and beasts constrained to pass that way; a road unsought except in dry
weather, a rugged descent from Llantrissant to the ford of the Rhonda,
and then up and down again, with stones and tree-roots lying in wait to
trip unwary feet; for at that period the picturesque Vale of Taff was
thickly wooded and scantily populated, and the roads were little better
than deep gullies or natural stairways.

His sturdy Welsh pony, however, was a thorough mountaineer, and, left to
himself, jogged along without stumbling or straying, whatever the hour
or the road. He took to the water and crossed the ford of the swollen
Rhonda safely enough, although twilight was falling; but the evening
shadows had deepened with every mile they trod, and grew heavier as they
descended towards the larger river, with darkening woods on either hand,
for there they rode through a veil of blinding mist.

The mist had been gathering and the water rising rapidly, when Owen
Griffith, one of his neighbours, who had prudently quitted the market
three-quarters of an hour earlier than Edwards, finding the river
evidently on the rise, had deemed it only wise to trust his pony's
sagacity to find a trustworthy ford rather than depend on his own
eyesight.

It was quite a matter for after conjecture, but it was always supposed
that the sagacious animal Edwards bestrode had grown restive and refused
to take the unsafe crossing, and that he,--a man doggedly obstinate and
wise in his own conceit,--unable to discern a reason for his faithful
beast's rebellion, had forcibly compelled the reluctant animal to
attempt the ford in spite of its resistance, as shown by hoof-marks
beaten in upon the bank.

Be that as it may, the riderless horse found its way home to the
woodside farm on Eglwysilan Mountain, wet, foaming, and panting; the
saddle and saddle-bags, drenched with discoloured water, telling all too
surely that the uneasily watching wife was a widow, her four children
fatherless. In such moments the mind always grasps at the worst
suggestion.

The distracted woman rushed shrieking to her nearest neighbour. Her
awakened boys called after her, but she heard them not.

The alarm spread. In an incredibly short space of time, considering how
far apart lay the farms, and how few were the cottage homes, a score or
two of half-dressed men and barefooted women were running or riding to
the rescue, if such were possible. And wherever was practicable path or
foothold, lanthorns were flashing along the steep and densely wooded
banks upon the swiftly running river; but though it was seen where the
poor horse had contrived to scramble up the bank, there was no sign of
him they sought so anxiously.

[Illustration: THE RIDERLESS HORSE FOUND ITS WAY HOME.--_See page 16._]

The more fortunate beast had had a narrow escape.

Not forty yards ahead the chafing Rhonda came leaping and foaming to the
deathly embrace of the Taff, and in the swirl of the confluent waters
all hope was lost.

Yet still the despairing widow urged the wearied explorers on; and moved
by her piteous entreaties, Owen Griffith, their near neighbour, declared
he would not give up the search until the farmer was found, dead or
alive, if he had to go as far as Cardiff to find him. The man was ill at
ease, feeling as if a little more urgency on his part might have drawn
Edwards away from the market in time for safety.

His determination arrested the steps of several others who were on the
point of turning back, and they joined him readily, but only on the
condition that Mrs. Edwards should return home with the rest of the
women, and leave the search to them. 'You will be best at home, look
you! Women have no business here!' said they, unnerved by her white face
and stifled sobbing.

'Yes, yes, Jane,' urged the women. 'Think you of your children, do; and
come back. It's crying in the dark, and all alone they will be, yes
indeed!'

And moved by the picture of her desolate children in their affright and
grief, the sorrowing and agitated mother was drawn homewards, by the
strong cords of maternal affection, to clasp them in her arms, and
stifle her own anguish in attempts to impart the comfort she could not
yet take to her own stricken heart.

She was a religious woman, with a simple, unquestioning faith in the
wisdom and love of her Heavenly Father; and who shall say the effort
held for her no healing balm?

If she wept, she also prayed; and although two of her children, William,
not yet a three years boy, and Jonet, a girl of four, were too young to
enter into the depths of her grief, or comprehend her prayers, David and
Rhys,[3] respectively nine and twelve, were old enough to understand,
and to feel how disastrous a calamity had fallen upon them unawares.

Before midnight the three youngest had cried themselves to sleep. Only
Rhys remained, with his arms around his mother's neck, to share her
terrible night-watch, and wait for what day might bring; his overflowing
young heart swelling with unexpressed resolves to be her shield and
protector when he should grow a man.

In the grey of the morning Owen Griffith and his helpers came upon what
they sought a few miles below Treforest, on the eastern bank of the
river, flung ashore like a weed by the inflowing current of the Rhonda,
and left there by the rapid subsidence of the temporary spate. Soberly
and reverently they laid it on an extemporised litter of boughs and
reeds, covering the face with Owen's coat, and slowly re-trod the miles
to lay the disfigured dead down on the bed from which a hearty man had
risen the preceding morn.

There is no antidote to inconsolable grief like active employment, work
which exercises hand and brain and cannot be set aside. Such is the
daily work on a farm; and though kindly neighbours had taken care of
the poor horse and its burden, had dressed the younger children, and
volunteered assistance in other small household matters, neither the
cows nor the goats would submit to be milked by strange hands.

Mrs. Edwards had, fortunately, no time to indulge in grief. She was a
woman of determined energy and practical piety; and after the first
overwhelming outburst of natural emotion, turned to her ordinary duties
as if awakened to the consciousness that all the care and responsibility
of farm and family rested on her individual shoulders.

Dashing the tears from her eyes, she snatched up a milking-stool and
pail, and was off up the hill-side, Rhys darting after her with a
smaller stool and pail to milk the she-goats, not for the first time,
but for the first time voluntarily. His initiatory lessons had been
taken that summer, with his father standing over him to keep the
refractory in order, whether biped or quadruped.

He had not taken kindly to the task at the time, having all a boy's
fondness for play, and would rather have gone bird-nesting than
goat-milking. But _now_ that his father was gone--so suddenly taken from
them--he, too, seemed to feel as if new duties devolved on him, and
that, boy though he was, he must aim at the work of a man, and spare his
widowed mother all he could.

The idea was scarcely spontaneous. He had overheard a knot of gossips
lamenting that Farmer Edwards had not left a son old enough to take his
place on the farm, and help his mother to rear the younger ones as in
duty bound. And he had straightway resolved to prove the gossips in the
wrong.

'If I am not old enough to take my father's place, I am old enough to do
my duty, and I shall get older and stronger every year. They shall see
what I can do to help mother; and as for my brothers and sister, am I
not the eldest, and ten whole years older than William? Sure I can take
care of them--at least I can try.'

If this was not absolutely the boy's colloquy, it comes near enough to
its spirit. There was something of the father's masterfulness in Rhys,
and, directed to noble purposes, it might serve the widow in good stead.
And noble purpose may be shown in small things as in great; indeed, is
stronger in the lesser, where it makes no show, than in great deeds,
which make a parade and attract applause. The only danger with Rhys was
that, self-inflated, he might develop an obtrusively dominant will that
should override his better qualities. At present his sole desire was to
relieve his overburdened mother, and protect his sister and brothers--a
worthy and noble aim for a boy of his age.

But a boy reared on a small farm in those primitive days was not the
helpless creature progress and modern manners have manufactured between
them. Very primitive indeed was Welsh farming in the last century,
primitive as the farms themselves. But no child of seven or eight was
too young for work of some kind or other, whether reared in the
labourer's windowless hut or on the farmer's own wide hearth. If only
stone-picking, weeding, or rook-scaring, there was always something to
be done, something to keep active and restless boys and girls out of
mischief before they were old enough to drive the cows to pasture, or
assist shepherd and husbandman.

Of school-going there was little enough; even dame-schools were as
scarce in wild Wales as in rural England; but there was generally a
substitute by the fireside, and the man who could not read was far less
common in the little Principality than in the larger kingdom.

Still more scarce was the woman or man who could not knit. When a child
was six years old, it was time to put knitting-pins into the little
fingers to learn the simple stitch. And wander where you would, over the
mountains or along the rough roads, you were sure to meet man or maid,
on horseback or on foot, stocking-knitting with mechanical precision.

In the long winter evenings, when the only illumination was from the
culm fire, the solitary candle, or homemade rushlight, knitting and
spinning filled up usefully the darkened hours. And perchance then the
big Welsh Bible Dr. Parry had provided for his countrymen a century
before would be brought out and laid on the table close to the solitary
candle, to be read aloud or spelled out by the growing boy or girl,
under paternal instruction. On the Sabbath this was surely so.

Under such training it was clear that Rhys at twelve years of age would
be more capable and practically helpful to his mother than a modern
farmer's son, who sees the farm only in the holidays, or out of school
hours, who handles tennis or cricket bat instead of spade and
pitchfork, and never did a day's hard work in his young life.

When Rhys bravely resolved to work like a man, he knew what lay before
him to do and to learn. Farming on a thin, unproductive stratum of soil
in a mountain land is no child's play.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Pronounced Egloois-ilian.

[2] _Cwrw da_, good ale. The _w_ has the sound of _oo_; thus _cooroo_.

[3] Rhys, pronounced Rees.




CHAPTER II.

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.


Is there any record of a catastrophe so great or appalling that it could
not possibly have been worse?

In the first hours of her sudden bereavement, Mrs. Edwards felt as if an
overwhelming flood of desolation had swept over her, and left her and
her orphans helpless and hopeless. Not that her husband had been the
most active spirit on the farm, but she was in no condition to reason or
to weigh probabilities. She had not been wont to rely on him for advice
or action, but in losing him she felt as if all was lost.

An apparently small matter roused her to the consciousness that there
were depths of misery into which she had not been plunged, and that even
out of her affliction she had cause to thank God for sparing a double
blow.

When the drowned man had been discovered, he had been bruised and beaten
against rocks and stones until his grey frieze coat was torn into shreds
and tatters. But it was afterwards found that the old stocking-foot he
carried as a money bag had been securely buttoned up in his breeches
pocket, and the produce of his sales at the Friday's market was there
intact in hard coin.

In the extremity of her grief for her one great loss she had overlooked
the probability of the smaller. Not till the saturated bag was handed to
her unopened did she realise what might have been.

As she poured the gold and silver out on her lap, she clasped her hands
and fervently thanked God that in His wrath He had remembered mercy.

'I had forgotten that the sheep and goat had been sold to make up the
half-year's rent. Yes, indeed I had. And what would become of the farm
and the poor children if the rent could not be paid? Pryse, the agent,
would turn us out for a better tenant than a poor widow, look you! But
he shall see what a woman can do. The good God has not quite forsaken
us.'

She wept again at the thought, and little William and Jonet having drawn
close to her side questioning her with innocent eyes and tongues, she
clasped them both in a close embrace, and, without trusting herself to
answer, rose from her wooden stool and carried the recovered coin to a
safe hiding-place in the big chest, her sad heart much lightened of its
load.

Barefooted David, who was still petticoated--his nine years bringing no
title to the dignity of week-day shoes or breeches,--ran with all speed
in search of Rhys, to carry the news that a bag of money had been found
in his father's pocket, and that his mother was crying over it.

Rhys was just then feeding the pigs in a stone trough, placed where
they were walled in like sheep in a fold. He almost dropped the pail he
was emptying, he turned round so sharply.

'Crying? What for?'

''Deed, I think it was about being turned out of the farm,' answered
Davy, who had caught the words imperfectly, as he hurried out at the
doorway.

Rhys looked aghast. What became of his heroic resolution to work for his
brothers and sister if they left the farm?

'Turned out of the farm?' he echoed incredulously. Had not his father
and grandfather been born upon it? It would be like tearing up an oak
tree by the roots.

''Deed, and she said it,' replied David, as if injured by the doubt.

Down went the empty pail on the stones, and into the house strode Rhys,
alternately red and white with excitement.

He could scarcely get the words out, they seemed to choke him. 'Davy
says,' he began with a gasp, 'that we are to leave the farm'--he could
not bring himself to say 'be turned out.'

'Nay, Rhys, not now I have all the money for the rent, thank God! If
that had been lost in the river, I cannot tell what might have happened.
There would be no chance of selling cows or pigs, or the oats, or
anything before the rent-day, and Mr. Pryse would not wait an hour. "Out
you go!" would be his word. "There's a man will give ten guineas more
rent for it, and keep the land in better condition." Yes, look you, he
has been saying that these three years, and now it's he will be for
saying a woman will not be able to keep the hundred acres and pay my
lord his forty pounds. It's poor land, so much rock and bog and wood,
and he knows it, so much barren hill-side, scarcely fit to pasture the
few sheep and goats. Yes, 'deed it will take hard work to make the farm
pay now the husbandman is gone. Ah, yes, yes! We have had a terrible
loss, Rhys, _fach_.'[4]

As she spoke the last words the poor widow's tears gushed forth again,
and would not be restrained. The flowers she was strewing over the
sheet-covered form of her dead fell to the floor, and she dropped on her
knees beside the bed, where it was her mournful duty to watch, and hid
her face with her hands as if to conceal the passion of grief she could
no longer control.

Rhys was sobbing too, though he strove against it in his effort to be
manly. His arm went round her heaving shoulders with an unstudied air of
natural protection, and in a broken voice he begged her to be calm. Not
that he was by any means calm himself, but he was feeling early the need
for self-restraint.

'Don't, mother, don't,' he murmured; 'you will be making yourself ill,
and then who will mind the farm or the children? I will be a good steady
boy, and will work as hard almost as a man. You shall not miss father
more than I can help, look you. And sure we have a terrible loss; but,
mother dear, it might be worse if we did lose the farm and all, as Davy
did say. You are a good farmer, so Owen Griffith do say, and you will be
teaching me.'

'Yes, indeed, please God, and you shall be a good farmer too, Rhys,'
sobbed she, drying her eyes on her long check apron, and giving him a
look of profound trust and loving motherhood, whilst he drew himself up
with a renewed sense of importance.

At that moment a figure darkened the bedroom doorway. In stepped a
fresh-looking young woman with bare legs and feet, short petticoats of
striped flannel, a dark blue woollen cloak, and a man's tall hat worn
over a plain linen cap, white as a snowdrop, though the stray locks
beneath it might have been more orderly had looking-glasses been more
common. She had a bundle on her left arm, a stocking she was knitting in
her hand, whilst little Willie held her fast by the other, and Jonet
clung to her cloak.

'Ah, Ales,[5] is that you?' burst from Mrs. Edwards with an evident gasp
of relief. 'You was not expected back so soon. Had you heard of our
loss? Is your poor mother well again?'

'Not quite well, but better, look you. She can sit up, and Mary may
manage to do for her now, perhaps.' There was a dubious tone in the
'perhaps,' but she went on to say, 'Mother would not let me stay when
she heard of your great trouble, after you was so kind as to let me go
away to nurse her. It was not right I should stay at Caerphilly when you
was being left all alone by yourself, with nobody to keep watch with
you or to help at all;' and she passed into the kitchen as she spoke.

'Yes, _I'm_ here, Ales,' thrust in Rhys, as he followed. 'I shall help
mother now; yes, indeed!'

'You?' ejaculated Ales incredulously, whilst divesting herself of
bundle, cloak, etc. 'Help's a little word and soon said, but it's not
much more than the saying we will be getting from you, Rhys. You never
was fond of work, whatever!'

Rhys pulled himself up as if insulted. 'You shall see,' he said loftily,
and quitted the kitchen, where Mrs. Griffith was paring turnips for
dinner, his chin in the air. And not another word did he vouchsafe to
the young woman, his mother's hired servant. He might, by his manner,
have expected her to understand his altered position and good resolution
intuitively, but she only knew him as a lad with more liking for play
than work, and expected no more from the present than from the past.
Nay, perhaps less, now there was no father to drive him to his daily
tasks and thrash him into industry.

It was a time of unusually painful bustle and excitement, yet there was
no cheeriness about the daily tasks. Indoors there was a hush even in
the scrubbing of benches, tables, and platters, almost in the dash of
the churn, for was not the widow still keeping her watch by the
dead--the dead who could not be buried on the third day, but must wait
until coroner and jury could be called together to verify the cause of
Mrs. Edwards' widowhood? Mrs. Griffith was there, alternately to help
Ales with her work, and to relieve the mourner--a kind, motherly sort of
woman, one to rely on in emergency.

Out of doors Rhys kept David well employed, telling him he would have to
learn to be a man, directing him to do this or that with quite an
elder-brotherly air of proprietorship, though not unkindly. Ales
wondered what had come to him, he worked about the farm with so much
more knowledge of the right thing to be done at the right time than she
had given him credit for possessing.

As for poor little Jonet and William, they shrank whispering into
corners out of everybody's way, or slunk out into the bit of ground that
did duty for a garden, or strayed into the orchard, where they made
themselves useful picking up windfall apples for the pony and the pigs,
and did their best to make themselves ill by eating the unripe fruit at
the same time; for although four years old Jonet was imitative in
assuming a protectorate over her two years brother, she had not herself
outlived a childish love for the crude and indigestible. They were,
fortunately, too young to comprehend the mystery of the closed room, yet
the general air of restraint affected even them, as they went about hand
in hand.

The valley of the Taff has long been noted for its fertility. It was
otherwise in the early years of the last century, when husbandry in
Wales was so primitive that the spade did duty for the plough, and crops
had to be wrung from exhausted soil wholly by hand-labour; ignorance,
and old prejudice in favour of doing as their fathers had done before
them, standing in the way of progress, equally with the paucity of good
roads and bridges over which to convey produce.

In places the lowlands near the river were fertile; and where the stream
was bordered by lofty slopes, and not hemmed in by precipitous limestone
crags, they were clothed with dense woods of fir and mountain ash, oak
and beech, with sallows by the water edge, all more esteemed by the
sparse population for their timber than for their wondrously picturesque
beauty. But at the top of the mountain range eastward of the vale, and
on their upper slopes, much of the ground was sour and boggy, and called
for more agricultural knowledge and appliances than had found their way
thither, even when this century was born.

The farm of the Edwardses was so situated on the mountain-side, and
certainly enjoyed a diversity of soil capable of development in capable
hands. In Eglwysilan parish it was regarded as a fairly large farm, and
the house was the envy of the neighbours, though my modern readers may
think there was little to envy. It had not only three rooms besides the
capacious kitchen, but that kitchen could boast two glazed windows, one
on either side the entrance; a very rare distinction, except in good
houses or towns, so rare that not even shutters closed the apertures
through which air and light found their way to the two sleeping rooms or
to the long apartment in the rear, which served a variety of purposes.
These were the housing of general stores, household and farming
implements, a passage being kept clear from the kitchen midway through
to the back door and farmyard. And this was all the isolation considered
necessary for the dairy and dairy utensils, notwithstanding the purpose
to which the other half of its space was devoted.

All these separate rooms were upon the ground floor. Stairs were almost
unknown conveniences in the cots and farms of wild Wales. Even in the
villages few were the inhabitants privileged to look down upon poorer
neighbours from upper windows. Lime, however, was plentiful in
Glamorganshire, and though walls were put together of roughly hewn
stone, they were whitewashed both inside and out with conscientious
frequency.

In no place short of a mansion was much furniture to be found. And to
say that Mrs. Edwards had a well-scrubbed dresser filled with wooden
platters and with mugs of Staffordshire pottery; that she had not only a
large oaken table, but a linen cloth to cover it on occasion, and that
there was a chair near the chimney corner in addition to the high-backed
bench, or settle, and the three-legged stools; that a spinning-wheel
stood between the two bedroom doors opposite to the fireplace, and that
a large oaken chest stood under one window containing the family stock
of clothing, and of flannel the wheel had helped to spin, was to say
that she was for her time and place a thrifty, well-to-do woman,
somewhat in advance of her class.

However, the great feature of the kitchen was the expansive open
fireplace, where the fire was made on a broad hearthstone, slightly
raised, the inside of the chimney, which sloped upwards towards the top
like a narrowing funnel, being set with stone seats for the elders of
the family.

On the Tuesday following the catastrophe which had made Mrs. Edwards a
widow--although all the morning there had been the trampling through of
coroner and jurymen--a fierce fire of peat and fire-balls filled the
whole of the hearth, and two huge iron pots like witches' cauldrons hung
suspended by chains above it, bubbling and steaming. At the same time,
in the large oven built into the wall on the right of the fireplace, she
and her helpers had been baking spiced cake and oaten bread the whole of
the morning, as if providing for a regiment of soldiers.

It was a hot day and hot work, though casements and doors stood open to
let out the vaporous fumes of cookery; and had not neighbourly Mrs.
Griffith come with her young daughter Cate to the assistance of Ales and
her troubled mistress, the former would have been unable to relieve Rhys
of his voluntary but fatiguing duty at the remorseless churn, so great,
if not unusual, were the preparations for the guests expected on the
morrow.

Indeed, as Mrs. Edwards said, she did not know what she could possibly
have done without Owen Griffith and his wife, they had been such zealous
friends to her in her great affliction.

She was not aware how the man's tender conscience stung him for leaving
Edwards to return home alone from Llantrissant. He was feeling himself
in some sort responsible for her bereavement. At any rate, no brother
could have served her in better stead had a brother been at hand.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] _Fach_, equivalent to the English dear.

[5] Ales, pronounced Alis; in English, Alice.




CHAPTER III.

A BOY'S WILL.


As my story concerns not the dead man, but the family he left behind, I
might pass over his burial in silence, had it not been marked by
peculiar customs, few traces of which remain. Mountainous and
inaccessible regions retain their characteristic traits of life and
language long after intercourse has fused together the differing speech
and habits of dwellers on the plains, whether city or suburban.

It was the last watch-night, and neither Ales nor her mistress had been
in bed for a couple of nights, the girl electing to share the widow's
watch beside the closed coffin of her good master, as Rhys would still
have done had his careful mother not forbidden.

But long before the grey mists of morning had risen above the tree-tops,
or lifted off the mountain-side, Rhys was up and astir with them. There
was no leisure for indulgence in grief. There was so much to be done and
cleared away before the mournful business of the day began. There were
flowers to gather to strew upon the coffin-lid, and carry to the grave.
And, if the sheep and cattle out on the hill-side could find pasture for
themselves, the cows and ewes must be milked, the pigs and poultry fed,
or released to feed themselves.

So Rhys and Ales were off betimes, laden with empty pails; bare-legged
Ales brushing the dew from the gorse and heather as she trudged along
with a pitcher balanced on her head, a stool tucked under one arm, a
pail on the other, her knitting, for a wonder, left behind; Rhys, by her
side, swinging a large milking-pail to balance a second stool.

When they returned with laden pails to be emptied into the tall churn,
the fire was aglow, the porridge ready, the younger children up and
dressed in sombre suits, Davy in his first breeches, and all three stiff
and uncomfortable in shoes and stockings, neighbourly Mrs. Griffith and
her young daughter Cate having come upon the scene to set the afflicted
and harassed widow free for the rest of the day.

Owen Griffith was also there, and by the time breakfast was over and a
clearance effected, Mrs. Edwards and Rhys had changed their garments and
assumed the sable hooded-cloaks prescribed for mourners. Then the table
was covered with a clean homespun linen cloth, and re-set with cold
beef, cake, and cheese, for all comers, along with mugs to hold the
customary draught of hot ale and _abelion_, the latter a spiced
decoction of elderberries and herbs, chiefly rosemary, huge pitchers of
which were kept piping hot on the hearth.

Meanwhile, Owen Griffith and a companion had improvised a table of
planks, and a long bench in front of the house, piling up turf and
stones as supports, a proceeding William watched with wondering
interest. He may have puzzled where the mugs and platters came from, and
who would sit at the long boards and consume all the beef, the piles of
cake, and the great cheeses set out in halves, and what the two empty
bowls were for in the middle of each table.

At all events, Jonet wondered, and communicated her perplexity to David,
who in turn referred to Rhys, to be answered curtly, 'Wait and see! I'm
more puzzled to know what do bring Owen Griffith here, ordering about
and as busy as if he was master.'

The mother could have told that a distant cousinship between Griffith
and the deceased sufficed for authority to make all needful arrangements
in the absence of nearer kin, and that she was extremely grateful to him
for his kindness all through the trying time.

Very soon the other children had their questions answered, for guests,
bidden or unsought, came trooping in from valley and mountain near and
far, not by twos and threes only, but by dozens; relatives, friends, and
mere acquaintances, for Edwards was a man held in high esteem. All were
in their Sunday best, yet very few had so much as a bit of crape, a
black kerchief, or a black pair of stockings. Their presence was
supposed a sufficient token of respect.

In succession as they came began, not merely a clatter of subdued voices
discussing the sad accident--which might have overtaken any of them--but
a general distribution and consumption of cheese, cake, and ale
flavoured with the _abelion_, which custom may have rendered palatable,
the simple provisions rapidly disappearing and being replaced as fresh
arrivals brought fresh appetites, sharpened by journeying through the
keen morning air, and eaten in primitive fashion, each man bringing his
own pocket-knife, and converting his bread into a plate to be cut up and
eaten with the meat upon it.

And as the widow could not be reasonably expected to provide for so
numerous and impromptu a party--_cwrw_ being rather an expensive
item--each partaker cast a sixpence or other coin into the bowl
provided, a proceeding at which the younger children expanded their
astonished eyes--all was so strange to them.

Then the crowd, both within and without the house, made way for the
bearers with their heavy burden, and for the black-cloaked widow and her
two eldest orphans to follow.

On account of their tender years, the roughness and distance of the road
to be traversed, it had been decided to leave Jonet and William behind,
in care of Ales.

But silent William had had his wondering eyes and ears open the whole of
the morning; and no sooner did it dawn on his infantile comprehension
that his father was being carried away in the big box, and that his
mother and brothers were going away with it, than he insisted on going
likewise; clung to his mother's skirts, and held fast, neither amenable
to persuasion nor command to release her and remain at home with
obedient Jonet.

No! He saw his mother and brothers in tears, and the bearers slowly
moving away with the coffin in which his father was shut up, and in his
baby-ignorance he concluded some great wrong was being done. He had been
told by Ales that he would never see his father any more, and must have
concluded the others were being taken away also; for when he was carried
into the house by main force, he fought and struggled in Owen Griffith's
strong arms, and cried with dogged persistence, 'Me will go! me shall
go!'

Even when shut up close in the bedroom, he kicked at the door and
screamed, 'Let me out, let me out; I will go!' until, after a while, the
noise ended in a sob and a scuffle, and busy Ales concluded he had
wearied himself out and fallen asleep.

When Ales, some quarter of an hour later, opened the door in compliance
with Jonet's piteous entreaties, the room was deserted, and William
nowhere to be found.

Kicking at the hard door had hurt his toes, in spite of his new shoes,
so he turned round to try his heels. On so doing he discovered that the
small window-hole was wide open. In another minute he was across the
room, scrambling up on to a box lying beneath the narrow aperture in the
thick wall, a look of sudden triumph on his determined round face.

He thrust out his head and beheld a long procession winding in and out
of the rocky and uneven road, a multitude of high-crowned hats, some
atop of women's linen caps, these rising above a medley of red and grey
cloaks, striped petticoats and dark jackets crossed with small shawls,
mingling with men's grey coats and blue ones; but it did not occur to
the child, as it might strike us, that there was any incongruity in
these vari-coloured garments on so solemn an occasion. All to him was
new. He had never seen such a concourse of people before; his sole idea
was that his mother and his brothers were being borne away after his
father, and that he was bound to overtake and bring them back.

The window was not much more than a yard from the ground outside, but it
seemed far to so young a child. However, he managed to clamber up in
some way, and to drop outside on his feet, and, after a sly glance round
to see that the coast was clear, he trotted off as fast as his sturdy
little legs would carry him, and out at a narrow gap in the stone wall,
which did duty for a gateway; and as the descending procession moved but
slowly, and there were occasional stoppages for change of bearers, he
contrived to keep the rear of it in sight.

Ere long his wood-soled shoes and stockings chafed and cramped his feet,
and he sat down on a wayside stone to remove them. When he looked up,
the last hat had disappeared, but, nothing daunted, he set off again at
a run, carrying his shoes and stockings in his hands, and ere long
caught sight of the nodding hats at a turn of the tortuous road.

He had run nearly a mile, and was getting breathless and footsore, but
he went panting forward, with no thought of giving in; but soon he began
to call out for some one to stop, and tears ran coursing down his chubby
cheeks. Still he trotted on for another half mile or so; but the pace
became slower, the tears ran faster, and when the tail of the procession
again disappeared he sobbed aloud, beset with fears.

At this juncture a man leaning over a wall, who had followed the long
train with his eyes, caught sight of the woe-begone child, in its black
frock, limping painfully along, and asked what he was doing there, and
what he was crying for.

The answer was not very coherent or articulate, but the man was sharp as
he was good-natured. In a very short time he was out in the road, with
William Edwards mounted on a sleek ass, following in the wake of the
mourners, who after a short distance on the level began to ascend the
lofty hill on the brow of which, like an eagle on its eyrie, stood
Eglwysilan's[6] ancient church, with the modest vicarage beside it,
isolated from the widely scattered parishioners, and almost inaccessible
in foul or wintry weather.

Local tradition assigned to this time-worn edifice a date coeval with
the apostles. But suppose we allow the apostles to have slept for nearly
three hundred years, and assign to our British St. Helena (or Elian),
the church-founding mother of Constantine, the credit of selecting the
breezy site for a structure to which she stands sponsor, we still
accredit the long-bodied, square-towered, and small-windowed church with
a most venerable antiquity, and solid masonry which might make modern
architects blush for shame.

No sooner were adventurous William's fears of being left behind set at
rest by overtaking the slow pedestrians of the long train, than his
spirits revived. He began to look about him, and to question the kind
cottager, 'What's this?' or, 'What's that?'

Of course he spoke in Welsh, as did all the people. I but render their
language into English for my readers.

From his elevated seat he could overlook low walls, and glancing down
through the autumnal woods on his left, where the red ash-berries shone
temptingly bright against the russet--leaved oak and yellowing beech,
caught glimpses here and there of the shining river that had proved so
treacherously cruel to his poor father. But neither red berries nor
glancing river had such powerful attractions for him as the stupendous
pile whence boomed the tolling bell--the 'church' of which he had heard
so oft, but never seen.

He had gone with his sister and brothers to the wooded glen which
bounded their own farm on the north, there to help, or hinder, the
gathering of ash-berries and acorns; but of human habitations he had
seen nothing hitherto so large as his own home.

He seemed absolutely fascinated by the grey lichen-covered church, and
its low massive square tower, which he took for a huge chimney, and the
nearer they drew to it the greater became his absorption.

Being told, in answer to a query, 'People do go there to say prayers,'
he asked again, 'Why for? We say prayers at home.' But though the man
scratched his tangled red locks, no adequate reply was forthcoming.

At that moment there was a halt at the arched lych-gate. All the men
took off their hats, for the white-robed vicar had come to lead the way
into the church.

The boy, who had no hat to remove, could only look on and listen in
blank astonishment, understanding nothing of the solemn ceremony, but
awed by the mysterious proceedings, and the unfamiliar aspect of the, to
him, vast interior.

It was not until he beheld the coffin lowered into the 'big hole' that
he screamed out, and was not to be pacified, though Owen Griffith stole
gently away from the grave-side and took him in his arms for the second
time that day.

The ceremony was soon over, and nothing heard but the sobbing of the
mourners and the dropping of small coin into the shovel the sexton held
forth for their reception; for thus were the fees of the vicar and
himself paid by general contribution, and not merely by the bereaved
relatives. It was an old custom, seldom better observed than on this
occasion; for of the motley multitude drawn thither to show their esteem
for the dead and their sympathy with his family, two-thirds were wofully
poor, had travelled far, and lost a day's earnings to be there; but few
so poor as to pass the sexton's spade without a tributary coin, however
small. Set it, therefore, to their credit, and also that all were
decently clad, and flaunted no rags, if they had no crape to mourn in.
Custom is its own law, and respect is not shown by the colour of a coat.

But what of the little fellow who had found his way thither, and created
so much consternation by his unseemly interruption?

FOOTNOTE:

[6] Or, Eglwys-elian.




CHAPTER IV.

PAYING THE RENT.


''Deed to goodness! that boy's rightly named, for he's Will by name and
will by nature!' said Ales when the child was brought home, showing no
remorse for the trick he had played her, and little but indifference to
the chiding of his mother or Rhys.

'Me fought they was take you all away. Me said me would go. Me _did_
go!' was all the excuse they could extract from him.

He had made his return home triumphantly on the donkey of his stranger
friend, a peat-cutter named Robert Jones, and was not at all disposed
for humiliation. On the contrary, he was rather proud of his victory,
and excited by his introduction to new scenes.

The man, who was hospitably received and entertained, along with a
numerous party of 'cousins,' for whose refection boiled beef and _cwrw
da_ had been again set out, was quite ready to recount where and how he
had picked up the child, and expressed his surprise at the resolute
endurance that had carried him so far on a stony, unknown road, no less
than the strong affection which had overpowered the little fellow's
natural fears and sense of fatigue or pain.

He repeated with much humour some of the boy's queer questions and
sayings, promising to give him another donkey-ride some day. And
finally, when taking his departure, Robert Jones patted the boy's brown
head, and called him 'a little hero!' as the child ran past with Jonet.

This was not very wise, for the tone of admiration was ill calculated to
repress the child's early developed strength of will, or to soothe the
ruffled feelings of Rhys on finding his own superlative good conduct
apparently unappreciated, and William's wilful disobedience thus
applauded.

His chagrin did not escape the notice of the man, who, going round the
country as he did, selling peat and culm,[7] had frequent opportunities
for the study of human nature.

'Yes, look you,' cried he from the doorway, as he saw a scornful curl on
the lip of Rhys, 'your little brother will be greater than any of you
some day--head of the house perhaps.'

'He never will. I'm eldest, and then there's Davy. _He's_ a baby!' was
Rhys' indignant protest.

'A great good man, or a great bad one, Robert Jones?' called out Ales
after the turf-cutter, an old acquaintance of hers. She had not forgiven
William the fright he had caused by his escapade.

'Indeed, sure, and that depends on what you make of him among you,' the
peat-cutter called back over his shoulder, ere he bestrode his donkey
and went off.

'The man is right, Jane Edwards,' said Owen Griffith then to the widow;
'there do be great capacities for good or evil in Willem; he will need a
firm hand to control him.'

'Ah, sure,' she sighed deeply, her grey eyes filling with tears, 'and
now the firm hand is gone.'

'Ah, 'deed for sure! more's the pity!' was echoed round the board.

Rhys alone made no remark; but he set his lips close over his teeth, and
tightened his grip on his knife-handle, looking as if he thought _his_
hand firm enough to control his baby-brother, and as if _he_ meant to
curb the wilful little one, whatever others might do. Ales saw it, if
the mother did not.

Meanwhile William, unaware of his eldest brother's paternal intentions,
was seated under an apple-tree with Jonet, struggling for words to give
expression to all the wonders he had seen and heard that day, the 'big
house with the big chimney' more than all; whilst Davy, leaning
listlessly against the tree trunk, as if fatigued with his long walk,
crammed his mouth with bread and cheese, and smiled complacently at the
youngster's first impressions of things familiarity had deprived of
attraction for him, though over some he looked serious enough.

Five miles away on the south-east from the mountain spur on which the
Edwards' family had held a farm for more than a century, lay, in a
broad plain among barren hills, the grand old ruins of Caerphilly
Castle, the ancient stronghold of the Despencers, and the very small
straggling market town it overshadowed, a town which had either gone to
ruin or ceased to grow, since the great castle had been despoiled and
tenantless.

It had ceased to be a borough in King Henry VIII.'s time, but still it
clung to its fair and market, and thither came farmers and their wives
with their produce; miners or their wives, and the servants from the few
great houses thereabouts, as buyers. And there, too, came, at stated
periods, with his string of pack-horses, the travelling collector of the
hand-made goods of the district, such as knitted hosiery, linen checks,
woollen shawls, flannels, blankets, all spun and woven in farms and
cottages scattered among the mountains. He was the medium between the
English merchant and the poor producer, who in the days when there were
neither canals nor railroads, nor any facilities for swift conveyance of
goods or people, could otherwise have found no market for his wares. As
it was, the weaver might probably have obtained better prices at
Cardiff, but the miles of extra distance had to be calculated in the
reckoning.

Early on the Thursday morning Mrs. Edwards, with a grey duffle[8] cloak
over her short black linsey[9] gown, and a black, low-crowned man's hat
above her white linen cap, her healthy face pale and worn with the
agitation of the week, stood by her egg and butter basket, debating
whether she should go to the market alone, or yield to the entreaty of
Rhys and take him along with her.

It was likewise the rent-day. Mr. Pryse, the noble landowner's steward,
condescendingly rode all the way from Cardiff to Caerphilly to meet his
lord's tenantry at the little inn, 'The Cross Keys,' and woe betide the
poor unfortunate who failed to put in an appearance, or to bring the
full quota of coin.

She was in no predicament of that kind, although she felt she might have
been; but, hitherto, Edwards had always paid the rent himself, even if
she had borne him company, and she rather shrank from her first
encounter with the disagreeable agent.

'You had better let me go, mother. Mr. Pryse will find that you are not
quite alone, and may be more civil when he sees how big and strong I am,
whatever,' urged Rhys.

(Mr. Pryse was a little, wizened, cantankerous fellow, with a skin like
shrivelled parchment.)

Ales put in her word. ''Deed, mistress, you had best take the boy. A
little stick is better than no stick in a fight.'

Ales had settled the question with this last remark.

'Well, perhaps it's best to be having a witness when you deal with queer
folk,' assented her mistress; and Rhys had permission to scuffle off and
slip on his black short-tailed jacket and breeches, so as to look his
best and bravest. He was a sturdy, well-grown lad for his years, with a
firm chin and fearless grey eyes, and whether it was fancy or reality
his mother thought him taller in his new clothes.

He certainly was developing rapidly; for no sooner was the shaggy pony
jogging along with its double load, Mrs. Edwards in front with her
basket resting on a bag of wool she had combed and spun, than he begun
to expatiate on the necessity there was now for him to learn how to go
to market, and buy and sell, if he was to be a real help to her. He
'could not be learning too much or too soon,' he said, and was not
contradicted, though a week earlier she would have laughed at him.

The road wound in and out among the hills, where the abundant waxen
blossoms of the cross-leaved heath were fast losing their delicate blush
and fading with the season, and the rosettes of the sundew had forgotten
their dead florets a month or more. The very bracken was turning brown
and husky, and the roadway was strewed with yellow and russet leaves
that were whirled hither and thither by the wind or were trodden into
the earth by unrelenting hoofs.

For it was also the first October fair, and there was no lack of company
by the way. Owen Griffith, farmer and weaver, had joined them early with
a great pack of flannel across his mare; and from almost every fold of
the hills came one or more on foot or horseback to swell the general
stream, every one, male or female, knitting along the road. The grimy
collier and the swart digger of tin and iron hailed each other by the
way, and the widow had many a respectful salutation as they jogged
along, and answered many an inquiry about the boy behind her.

Her first business when they reached Caerphilly was to get over her
ordeal with Mr. Pryse, Griffith kindly taking charge of her horse and
commodities.

The narrow entrance to the inn was crowded with tenants on their way to
the important deputy's room or from it, but all were ready with natural
politeness to make way for William Edwards' widow. Mr. Pryse might have
taken a lesson from men of lesser degree.

From the table by the window where he sat, with an inkhorn and papers
before him, small piles of coin at his right hand, he looked up.

Rhys had taken off his hat; the steward, to assert his superiority, kept
his upon his head.

'So I hear you're a widow, Mrs. Edwards,' was his abrupt salutation.
'The farmer could not see his way home, I'm told, and so got drowned.
Blind drunk, I suppose?' A supercilious lift of his narrow shoulders
emphasised his brutal comment.

Rhys flamed up. 'No, sir; my father _never_ got drunk. He could not see
for the mist, and the flood carried him away. If he had been drunk, sir,
he could not have crossed the Rhonda ford.'

If Mrs. Edwards had been shocked by the steward's unfeeling rudeness,
now she feared her farm was in peril, and began to wish she had left
Rhys outside.

With half-shut eyes, Mr. Pryse scanned the impetuous boy from head to
foot curiously. Ignoring the warm defence of a dead father, he drew his
sinister brows together, and asked curtly--

'That your son?'

''Deed, yes, sir.'

'How old is he?'

'Twelve last March, sir.'

An unpleasant smile thinned the thin lips that asked again--

'Your eldest?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Humph! And do you expect to manage the farm with only _his_ help?'

'Not altogether, sir. I've'--

'What?' he interrupted. 'Come to give it up?'

'_No_,' said the widow firmly. 'I have come to pay the rent. I can hire
a man. But _I_ shall be the farmer, please God.'

She counted out the money on the table as she spoke, the fire in her
eyes burning up the tears.

'And what sort of a farmer will _you_ make?' he replied with a sneer.
'You'd better give up the holding at once.'

'You'd better wait and see, sir. When I cannot pay the rent I may give
in, not before. I am wanting the receipt, look you.'

'Humph! Oh, ah, the receipt, sure!'

Had he counted on her being so ignorant, or simple, or careless as to
pay rent and take no receipt, his quill pen went squeaking over the
paper so reluctantly? At all events he watched her narrowly through his
slits of eyes as she took it up and read it carefully over, before she
folded it up and stowed it away in her needle-book for safe carriage in
her capacious pocket.

He was not quite so confident of her incapacity for management when she
left with a brief 'Good-morning,' and was followed by her son, who put
on his hat and said never a word. He was wise, for if he had said
anything there would have been unpleasantness.

So there would have been had he heard the growl that followed them.
'Humph! the young cub's as hot and unmannerly as his pig-headed lout of
a father! but he'll get his nails cut when the widow marries again,
indeed will he.'

'Mother, does Mr. Pryse ever cheat any one? I don't think he wanted you
to have that receipt you had to be asking for,' whispered Rhys when they
got outside. 'I felt as if I'd like to knock him down, 'deed I did.'

'Hush, Rhys,' and the widow looked round, afraid of listeners; 'you must
not say that. He's a very hard man, and nobody does be liking him much,
but I never heard of his really cheating any one. You must be very
careful not to offend him. Your poor father did it once, and he has owed
us a grudge ever since.'

'Then he is a bad man, and I shall hate him for the wicked words he said
of father.'

Owen Griffith was waiting, and brief was the widow's opportunity to
impress on Rhys the sin and danger of fostering hatred. As brief was the
influence on him. Mr. Pryse, apart from the insult to his father's
memory, had touched the sensitive nerve of his own sprouting
self-sufficiency, and shown, so the boy thought, a tendency to overreach
his mother; and, without any analysis of his own motives, Rhys had
conceived on the spot an unconquerable aversion to the unprepossessing
steward.

When Owen Griffith's turn came, Mr. Pryse was, for him, unusually bland
and gracious, much interested in his small holding and the welfare of
his family, and _incidentally_ interested in his near neighbours, the
family so suddenly deprived of its head. But though he passed the
weaving farmer through a very fine sieve, he got nothing for his pains
that could be laid up against either the drowned man or the capable
widow.

So capable, that she had disposed of her wool, her butter and eggs, sold
a quantity of oats from a sample, hired a trustworthy young man named
Evan Evans for the farm, made her own purchases, called to see the
rheumatic mother of Ales, who lived in a small cot built within the very
ruins of the castle, exchanged messages and Christian sympathy with the
old dame, and was refreshed and ready for her return home with Rhys long
before Owen or his friends thought of stirring.

And home they got whilst there was light to pick their way, though
clouds had been gathering in the south-west, and the first drops of a
heavy downpour caught them as they neared the farm. They were welcomed
by the joyous shouts of the little ones, and the assurance of Ales that
they had all of them been 'as good as gold,' and well deserved the
gingerbread brought home for them. Even William, of whom there had been
some doubts, accepted the 'going to market' as a common occurrence, and
had given her very little trouble, though he had exacted a promise that
she would take him some day to see 'the great big house, with the big
chimney, that they called the church.'

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Culm, the dust of hard coal, used for fuel when mixed with clay and
peat.

[8] Duffle, made both in scarlet and grey, was a very thick,
close-grained woollen cloth, its upper surface covered with pin-head
curly knots. It was almost waterproof.

[9] Linsey-woolsey, a mixture of linen and woollen, is still in use.




CHAPTER V.

THE NEW INMATE.


The rain was still coming down with steady persistence when, two hours
later, Evan Evans lifted the great wooden latch of Brookside Farm, and
entered the large kitchen with a 'God save you' for greeting.

Ales, who was giving the last stir to something bubbling in an iron pot
on the fire, whence came a steaming savour of leeks, turned round
sharply to see what sort of a young fellow had come into the house as an
inmate, and seeing, returned his salutation, as did the two lads waiting
for their supper.

What she saw was a strong-limbed young man, about three or four and
twenty, with a good-humoured smile upon his face, as if a drenched coat
and muddy nether garments were quite minor discomforts. He carried a
lighted lanthorn in one hand, and a bundle slung on a stick over his
shoulder.

'If you're Evan Evans,' said she, 'you'd best take off your coat, and
sit down by the fire to get dry,' a corresponding smile on her face
sufficing for a welcome, and indicating her content with the sample as
presented.

As if to ensure her good graces, his first act was to step across the
floor, and with one strong brown hand lift from the chimney-hook the
heavy broth-pot, on the handle of which the girl had just laid both of
hers.

'Good for you, Evan Evans; may you be always as ready,' said she,
showing her firm white teeth, and hastening to ladle out the broth the
boiled beef had supplied.

'Always ready for a good supper,' was the prompt reply. 'One does not
always get broth every day.'

Meat was not often boiled for broth then on small farms. Indeed, was
never cooked except on rare occasions.

At that moment Mrs. Edwards came in from what we may call the 'dairy' in
the rear.

'I did not expect you to-night,' said she, 'but it is well you are
here.'

'Sure and indeed, ma'am, you would not have me come on a Friday, and I
was not myself like to come on a Saturday, and I thought you would want
me before the Monday, look you.'

'Why not Saturday?' interrupted Rhys, waiting impatiently for his broth.

'Sure and "Saturday's flitting is a short sitting" my Irish grandmother
was used to say, and she was a wise woman,' answered the young man
gravely.

Superstition was so widespread and general, that no one uttered a word
of doubt or dissent to either proposition, but Mrs. Edwards remarked,
''Deed and it's quite as well you came. We have lost a week, and it's
time some of the roots was out of the ground. It will be soft for the
digging after the rain.'

'Do you be having any potatoes among your crops?' he asked then over his
steaming bowl of thick broth.

''Deed, no; Edwards' (a sigh) 'said they was only for the gentry to grow
in their gardens.'

'Then I would have you try them next year. The head man at Castella says
they was the most profitable crop he had on the land. They was good for
the cows and the hogs if he had any to spare from the family table. He
was be going to plough half an acre of ground for them.'

'Plough? What's that?' questioned Rhys, to whom the very word was
unknown.

Evan explained to more than one attentive listener.

'Ah, well,' said Mrs. Edwards, when he had done. 'Where I was in
England, every farmer did plough his fields. And my own father used to
be saying that the laws King Howel the Good did be making nearly eight
hundred years ago, would not allow any man to be a farmer unless he
could make his own plough, as well as guide it. But there did be only
wooden ploughs in those days, and they did get knocked to bits on the
stony ground among the mountains of wild Wales, and they did get out of
use, whatever. I did want to have a good strong plough here, but Edwards
was always be saying the spade was good enough for him. His father and
his grandfather before him had dug every rood of the land with the
spade, and what was good enough for them was good enough for him.'

'Good enough's all very well where there's never a better,' thrust in
go-ahead Ales, with the freedom of the time. 'You didn't be thinking
your grandmother's distaff good enough for you when you bought that
spinning-wheel.'

Both Evan and Rhys looked up from their half-empty bowls across the
table at Ales, as if struck by her pertinent shrewdness.

'Indeed, Ales, I did not; nor did I think holes that let in the wind and
weather along with the light good enough. But till the grandfather did
die of rheumatics there could be no glass windows. And I did not think
it good for the pigs to run loose, rooting up my garden and destroying
what they could not eat, but there has never been a sty built to this
day.'

'And what's a sty?' asked Rhys.

'A house for the hogs.'

Rhys laughed. 'Why, mother, who ever did see pigs with a house of their
own? All pigs run loose in the woods. Lewis did say to me he never saw
any but ours shut up in a fold like sheep.'

'Never mind Lewis. He has never gone far from Eglwysilan. If he had been
in England as I was before I married, he would have been seeing
pig-styes on every farm. But there be plenty in Wales, and Evan will set
up one here very soon.'

'Yes, indeed,' was the man's hearty response.

There was some further talk over work to be done, and how it was to be
done, before Evan followed Rhys to bed, neither having a word to say
against overcrowding, although David was there before them.

And then Mrs. Edwards and Ales, comparing notes, agreed that she had
hired a very capable man.

It might have been said with equal propriety that the widow had shown
her own capability in the choice of a farm-servant who would live in
close companionship with her fatherless sons.

Over the board set forth with funeral meats she had named her want among
the assembled relatives, and then had ensued a warm controversy on the
merits of various men likely to be at the Caerphilly hirings.

Some one had named Evan Evans. Thereupon arose a general outcry that he
would ruin the farm with the notions he had picked up at Castella, where
there was an English farm-bailiff. It was admitted that he was
hard-working, honest, sober, and religious, but all these were as dust
in the balance compared with the crime of departing from the old ways,
and preferring new methods of husbandry.

She had listened, making no comments. But she had hired the young fellow
the more readily for those very detractions. She had not found the old
ways pleasant or profitable. She meant to show Mr. Pryse what good
farming could do for but indifferent land. And she counted on Evan's
religious principles as warrants for the example he would set before her
growing boys.

The hiring was for the year, and could only be terminated by mutual
agreement. At the same time it was renewable from year to year, and
sometimes both men and maids remained with the same master or mistress
half their lives. If any breach of contract occurred, the law was very
strict and severe. A prison awaited the servant absent without leave, or
wilfully refractory, and heavy fines the masters who ill-treated the
servants so hired. Such cases were not frequent, but they did occur at
intervals.

Though the sky was clear, the rain was still dripping from the eaves,
and had worn little runnels in the soil and between the grey stones on
its way down hill to swell the noisy woodland brook, when Evan and the
boys turned out of their close and darkened bedroom in the morning, and
Rhys volunteered to show the former over the farm before the others were
up.

''Deed, no,' said the man, 'that do be your mother's place. She might
not be liking us to make so free, whatever. We can make up the fire, and
set on the porridge-pot for Ales, to lose no time. Where are the
fire-balls kept?'

This was a check to the boy's newly-born importance. Not choosing to
wait upon the man, he ordered Davy to fetch the fire-balls, and marched
out at the back in some dudgeon. Meanwhile, bidable Davy brought the
fire-balls. Evan, all unconscious of the young master's wounded
dignity, fanned the smouldering peat on the hearth to a glow, and had a
clear fire under the black pot when Ales and her mistress came upon the
scene, leaving Jonet and William still asleep.

The morning ablutions of Evan and the two elder boys were performed in
the open air, at a spring which gushed from the stony mountain-side into
a natural water-worn basin; Mrs. Edwards and Ales in the nondescript
apartment in the rear, there being little time or ceremony wasted in the
operation.

The rough-and-ready toilette completed, Ales went back to the kitchen;
and the sun having just risen above the mountain-top to waken up bird
and beast, and turn the lingering rain-drops into fairy gems, Mrs.
Edwards herself led Evan over the primitive homestead, from the rude
stabling and cowshed, where the fowls roosted overhead, to the
dilapidated thing they called a barn, and the sodden farmyard, where a
huge sow and her brood of piglings lay wallowing in the mire.

Two years earlier the young man would have looked on all with
complacency as the common state of things; but then he could only shake
his head and coincide with his new mistress that there was room for
improvements that would require time, energy, and some outlay. They had
looked into the orchard, and at the stone fences, and, the survey over,
came in at the front, where Mrs. Edwards had done her ineffectual best
to copy an English garden for herbs and flowers, and to keep out pigs,
poultry, and goats.

By this time Ales and offended Rhys were back from milking, the two
little ones were washed and dressed, and the porridge was ready for
pouring out, quiet Davy having lent a hand wherever needed, without any
fuss or assumption. He was always ready to fetch and carry at any one's
bidding, and was seldom allowed to sit still. It was he who had brought
water from the spring to wash the younger ones, and emptied it when
used; he who had laid wooden bowls and spoons on the table and brought
in the great brown pitcher of milk, and was lifting William to his seat
at the table when his mother and Evan came in at the door. Just docile
Davy, of whom nobody made much account either to praise or blame.

Rhys, who had not yet recovered his composure, had already taken his
seat at the table in silent displeasure, and took no note of their
entrance, but both Jonet and William stared hard at the strange man, the
former shyly, the latter with open-mouthed wonder, which he put into
words.

'Who's 'oo?' he wanted to know when Evan drew his stool to the table
beside him.

Being answered pleasantly, he rained childish questions thick and fast
on the 'strange man,' all relative to his presence there, and was barely
silenced when grace was said over the hot porridge. There had been so
many strange men coming and going in the past week that he wondered if
Evan had been left behind. His queries only ceased with a scalded mouth.

'If you want to learn farming, Rhys, you had better come with Evan and
me. We are going over the fields to settle what is best to be done,'
said his mother when breakfast was over.

Had his mother asked him to go along with _her_ to settle what had best
to be done, and how, he would have risen with alacrity to share her
cares and counsels, but much as he had professed his desire to learn he
did not want Evan Evans for a teacher. Had not his interest and
curiosity been excited overnight, he might have lingered behind, so sore
was he from the morning's rebuff. As it was he rose but sullenly to
obey.

'May I come?' asked Davy.

''Deed, no. You will be wanted here. Get your knitting and mind Jonet
and Willem.'

The peremptory reply served for both Davy and Jonet, though the latter
did put a pouting finger to her lips. But William had ideas and a will
of his own.

'Me go with 'oo!' 'Me must go!' 'Me _will_ go!' 'Man, take me!' were his
persistent iterations, while his sturdy bare legs and feet went
pattering after his elders over the rain-washed stones, and he struggled
with all his little might against the attempts of Rhys to force him
back.

Their wills were equally strong, but their strength was not. No doubt
Rhys clutched the tender arms too tightly, for William screamed and
cried out--

''Oo hurt me; 'oo hurt me.'

Evan, who had reached the gateway with Mrs. Edwards, turned back,
saying pitifully, 'Don't be hurting the little man. If your mother do be
willing to let him go, I will carry him on my shoulders, look you.'

In another minute, triumphantly, masterful William was mounted on the
low stone wall, on his way to the big man's shoulders, his mother
smiling a passive consent, whilst Rhys bit his under lip and clenched
his hands tightly in ill-concealed chagrin.

It was the second time that morning Evan Evans, the hired man, had
thwarted him, his father's first-born. Rhys, in his own opinion, had
ceased to be a boy. He had quite decided that he was to be his mother's
right-hand man, and that they would manage the farm between them, with
underlings of course, and here was this great interloper come and
thrusting him into the background.

[Illustration: MOUNTED ON THE LOW WALL, ON HIS WAY TO EVAN'S
SHOULDERS.--_See page 66._]

It was with no good will he followed over grass land and arable, over
the fallow and on to the high moorland, where the cows ruminated among
the tall grasses, and the sheep nibbled close to the ground the sweet
morsels the cows had left, and the omnivorous goats browsed on heather
or anything else in the way of vegetation. He heard them talk of the
carrots and other roots to be dug up and housed at once, of the lime and
farm manure to be laid on this field or that, and the suitable crops to
be raised; but though he had a crude perception that Evan was a better
farmer than his father, he sullenly resented the change in
contemplation. All the more, perhaps, because his mother called for his
attention, with 'You hear this, Rhys?' 'Yes, Rhys; indeed, that will
be best.'

He gloomed, whilst William, released from his perch, ran hither and
thither in high glee, chasing away the rooks and water-wagtails that
were, unsuspectedly, doing the farmer good service.




CHAPTER VI.

LOST.


It is difficult in these days of chemistry, steam, and mechanical
contrivances for reducing labour--if not for dispensing with it
altogether--to realise the difficulties attending the farmer in wild
mountainous districts, far removed from the centres of civilisation, and
unacquainted with the agricultural implements and appliances even then
in use in more favoured districts. Places where there were no carts and
no proper roads, and where the ascents and descents were too abrupt for
anything but a biped or a mule; where every acre of the cultivated
mountain or moorland had to be turned over with the spade, and every
particle of manure laid on the land had to be carried thither in baskets
strapped on human shoulders, or in panniers borne by ass or mule.

Yet, such were the difficulties Mrs. Edwards and other Welsh farmers had
to contend with even up to the present century, the moorland farmers of
Cumberland and the North-West Riding of Yorkshire being somewhat
similarly situated.

The loss of a whole week's labour at the beginning of October was a
serious detriment. Even Rhys knew that, and finding that he was to take
his instructions from his mother and not from Evan, he smothered his
ill-humour and buckled to in earnest, though his brows contracted when a
new form of labour was suggested to him.

'Rhys, do you think you could cut down the bracken at the edge of the
wood?' asked his mother dubiously.

'Yes, surely, I can cut it. Did I not help to reap the oats? But why
should it be cut?'

'Evan says it will save straw in the farmyard, and should be stacked for
bedding for the pigs and cattle before it do be too late. And after it
has served the beasts, it will be better for some of the land than
lime.'

''Deed, an' Evan do seem mighty clever! Houses and bedding for pigs
indeed!'

'Yes, indeed, Rhys, and I am not too proud or too old to learn from him.
Please God, he will be helping us to keep the farm in spite of Mr.
Pryse.'

Not another word of scorn fell from the boy's lips.

Bidding Lewis, the shepherd's son, follow with Breint, the pony, to
carry home the fern, as instructed by his mother, he, with a sickle over
his arm, took his way across a grassy slope towards the steep woodland,
stepping alongside the musical runnel the gushing hill-side spring sent,
as overflow from a huge stone trough or basin, across the land and down
the incline to join the tumbling brook from which the farm derived its
name. The tawny brook itself had its source high up in the peaty moss on
the mountain-top, and had worn, or found, a channel in a narrow cleft
between precipitous rocks, whose seamy sides barely afforded foothold
for fir and larch. Yet widening and deepening into a picturesque glen,
the ash and the elder hung out their red or purple-black berries over
the noisy and tumbling watercourse, and the sturdy trunks of oak and
beech uprose and spread out leafy arms to shade it from the too
intrusive westering sun, dropping in a ripe acorn or a triangular nut
quietly now and then, to float away and fructify in a future season far
from the parent tree.

It was otherwise when the wild north-east winds came rushing and roaring
down the glen, for then ripe or unripe acorns and prickly mast were torn
rudely away along with shoals of russet leaves and flung to the ground
as offerings to the hogs and omnivorous goats, the brook coming in for
its share, as well as the fringe of feathery ferns.

The larger portion of the farm lands were on the steep but undulating
uplands above the white homestead, the more fertile, including the
orchard and the garden-plot, lying below.

Bordered on either side by rough stone fences, and separating the grass
land from these, a wider well-trodden path or road, which the flaky
character of the stony ground converted into a natural succession of
broad shallow steps, trended obliquely from the house to the level or
main road such as it was. Across this, some two hundred yards farther
north, the simple brook spread itself out and chafed at the
stepping-stones which barred its passage to deeper woods and the great
river that would swallow it up. Just as some thoughtless youth rushes
from the safe shelter of a home too narrow for his ambition, and
plunging into the vortex of the untried world is lost for ever.

Some thirty or forty paces beyond the shallow brook stood the low
cottage of Owen Griffith, whitewashed like the larger farm above. Then
the lane took a turn and was crossed by intersecting roads perplexing to
strange travellers.

The outskirts of a flourishing and busy town now cover much of the land
I have described so carefully. Even the lanes and highways have
undergone changes since the Edwardses held Brookside Farm and traversed
them.

On that sunny October forenoon, while Rhys and Lewis cut down fern on
the borders of the wood, and Evan plied his spade to turn over the
stubble in good furrows higher up the hill, Mrs. Edwards midway, like a
true Welsh farmer's wife, resolutely dug up the long-rooted, tenacious
carrots, sparing not her toil, whilst Davy (again in petticoats) and
even four-year-old Jonet freed them from the loosened earth, and cast
them into wicker baskets for Ales to carry from the field to the barn,
poised on her head. The basket was not light when full, but she stepped
along with ease and grace, knitting as she went or came, only tucking
the rapidly increasing stocking in her girdling apron-string whilst she
emptied her load, or changed an empty basket for a full one.

At first, imitative William insisted on helping, or hindering, Davy and
Jonet, and for a while was as busy as the rest. Then he began to trot
beside Ales as she went to and fro. After a time the little bare legs
grew weary, and when the toilers rested on upturned baskets, to take
their noontide meal of oaten cake and buttermilk, he was almost too
sleepy to eat or drink, and, resting his sunny head against his mother's
knee, fell off into a doze.

Seeing that, Ales promptly lifted him up in her strong arms, and,
carrying him to the farm, laid him on his mother's bed and left him
there, as she thought, secure from harm.

Once or twice, after emptying her baskets in the barn, she came down to
the house and found him sleeping peacefully. So an hour and a half must
have slipped by, perhaps more, when turning in to look at her charge,
she found the room vacant.

Still, she was beset by no apprehensions of ill. She made up the
smouldering fire, and did one or two little household matters before she
went back to the field with her empty basket, nothing doubting but she
would find the boy with his mother. He knew his way about the farm.

'Is not Willem with you?' she cried out as she neared the group in the
field. 'He is not in bed.'

'Not in bed?' echoed his mother, but without alarm. ''Deed then, he will
have gone to Evan or to Rhys. That will be it. He will have met Lewis
with the pony, and got a ride in one of the empty panniers.'

'Sure, and that's most like.'

But on her next journey to the barn she saw Lewis bringing up the pony
laden with the panniers of bracken, but no child. Hastily ridding
herself of her load, she waited until he came near. Then she called
out--

'Have you seen Willem?'

''Deed, no! Is he lost again?' came back in reply.

'Lost? Name o' goodness, I hope not! Mistress will go distracted if he
is. Empty your bracken, and keep a look-out; I'm off up the hill to
Evan.'

And away she sped at flying speed, straight as an arrow, over field and
fallow. Her heart sank as she came in sight of Evan digging away as if
his life depended on his day's labour, companioned only by feathered
searchers for the worms he brought to light.

'Evan!' she screamed, affrighted at last, 'have you seen Willem? We
cannot find him anywhere, whatever.'

Down went the man's spade, and over the freshly-turned ground he came
bounding, in spite of his wooden-soled shoes. 'You don't mean to say the
child is lost?' he cried.

But she was already running back to her mistress, who took the alarm as
soon as they came in sight, and clasping her hands in sudden terror,
shrieked out, 'Oh, what is it? What has happened to my boy? Where is my
darling Willem? Oh, if I lose him too, I shall go crazy!'

Her only thought was that the child, in seeking Rhys, had fallen over a
rock and been killed.

Her shriek, her unbidden tears, communicated her fright to Jonet and
Davy, who clung to her skirts and cried for companionship, Jonet hardly
knew why.

There was a general rush to meet Rhys.

'Sure, he will be in the orchard,' said he confidently.

But he was not in the orchard, not anywhere on the farm.

''Deed, and I think he will be for going to the church,' put in Davy.
'He wanted to be going yesterday, look you!'

The idea was instantly caught up. Evan and Rhys were off in search, and
Lewis after them. Ales in vain endeavoured to persuade the mother to
remain behind, whilst she went up to the moor, to see if he had strayed
thither after the sheep. 'Don't fret,' she said, 'they are certain to be
bringing him back soon. His little legs would not carry him far.'

'Oh, Ales,' expostulated her mistress, 'how can you ask me to sit still
while my darling Willem may be dead or in danger?'

'Mother,' said Davy, with a gulp to swallow a sob, 'I will stay and take
care of Jonet if you both go. You will be good with me, won't you,
Jonet?'

'Yes, indeed,' replied the little girl, as his arm stole protectingly
round her shoulders, and he kissed her tear-stained face, 'I will be
very good.'

So, with strong injunctions not to go away, the two children were left
alone in the house, with only a grey cat and a rough dog to bear them
company.

At first they sat still and waited expectantly, clinging to each other.
Then the silence and solitude became oppressive. Presently Jonet began
to cry for her missing playfellow, and when brave-hearted Davy failed to
console her, his own tears began to fall. A dreadful fear began to creep
over him lest William should be lost like his father, and they might
never see him again. How long the time did seem to those two children
left alone with a new fear!

Ales was the first to return. She found the two seated on the stone
stile in front that commanded a view of the steep path, anxiously and
with beating hearts watching for some one to come.

She brought them no good news, and was off again with stool and pail,
for the cows were lowing to be milked. But her very coming had broken up
the dreary silence and monotony. And when she went she left them milk
and cake, and the consciousness she was not far away. Then, at her
suggestion, Davy began to teach Jonet to knit, and in the occupation
time passed less painfully.

Ales came back with her milk-pails, and commended them for being good;
made up the fire and set on the pot for supper. And so long as the
setting sun shone redly in through door and windows they were passive,
and she bustled about her household affairs, hiding her own fears.

But the sun set, and dusk came down, yet never a foot came near the farm
to say the boy was found.

Then Evan came up for lanthorns to renew the search. He said he had been
to the very church gates, but could find no trace of the child. Owen
Griffith had left his loom, and his wife had kept watch to give each
returning seeker news of the others. Mrs. Edwards was then at the
weaver's in pitiable distress, and Rhys rushing hither and thither
almost as wild.

The two children, unwilling to go to bed, had fallen asleep huddled
together in the chimney corner, when, between nine and ten o'clock,
restless Ales thought she heard a shout, and before she could get to the
door in burst Rhys, crying out, 'He is found! he is found!' and close at
his heels came Evan with the poor wanderer in his arms, limp and
helpless, his hair and his clothes saturated with heavy dew or mist, his
little bare feet cut and bleeding, his lips and hands stained with the
juice of purple berries.

The woods and every possible nook and corner seemed to have been
explored, when Evan chanced to question a young man upon the Merthyr
Road. The stupid fellow stared vacantly, then blundered out, ''Deed, an'
sure I did hear something about an hour ago up by the Druid Stones, but
I took it for a stray lamb bleating for the ewe.'

'Well, sure, and it _might_ be a child crying. I didn't go to see,' he
replied stupidly to a second question.

[Illustration: LYING IN THE MIDST OF THE HOARY CIRCLE OF GREY
STONES.--_See page 78._]

Evan stopped to hear no more. Without seeking a regular path, he made
his way through bush and bramble, over rock and hollow, and there in the
very midst of the hoary circle of lichen-covered grey stones, which
seemed to sentinel him round in upright double file, the light of the
lanthorn revealed the child lying in a heap under the overhanging
shadow of the great rocking-stone, his head pillowed on the arm that
rested against its conical base. Had the child mistaken those grey
stones for the upright slabs in the churchyard?

The first rejoicing over, and the boy in bed, Rhys and Ales were both of
opinion that he should be 'well whipped in the morning to teach him
better than to put people in such frights.' And no doubt Evan was of the
same mind, though he made no remark.

But the tender-hearted mother could only thank God for his restoration,
and say that he had punished himself quite sufficiently. He was not
likely to stray again.

Not for some time, for though all his garments were woollen, as were
those of his elders, the damp, the exposure, no less than his childish
terror, laid him up with a feverish illness that lasted for weeks.

As well as could be made out from his disjointed confession, Davy's
conjecture had been the true one.

He had wakened, found himself alone, and had set off to 'see the big
church,' nothing doubting he should find Robert Jones and his donkey to
help him on his way. He had gone splashing through the shallow brook,
and past Owen Griffith's unseen, but when he came to the bisecting roads
his memory failed; he hesitated, turned to the right instead of the
left, trudged on manfully northward, then took a by-path up-hill, as he
fancied to the church, got bewildered among walls and winding ways, and
out on the wild moor, stopping here and there to rest or gather
blackberries, for he was growing both weary and hungry. But he never
felt the solitude oppressive whilst there was a bird or a stray sheep
about. And it was not until the dusk began to gather and he sank utterly
exhausted under the great rocking-stone, that his courage forsook him,
and he cried piteously in his hungry loneliness and desolation, cried
himself into the insensibility of sleep, with only night and the
everlasting arms around him.

In losing himself had he lost his childish craving to see once more that
wonder of wonders--the big church?




CHAPTER VII.

THE YOUNG PLAGUE.


Thankful as was Mrs. Edwards, the mother, for the restoration of her
missing darling; as a farmer, sorely behind with the autumnal
field-work, the loss of half a day's labour to every useful hand upon
the farm chafed her no less than it irritated Rhys. But when the child
was absolutely ill, and required careful nursing or watching, she was
torn with a double anxiety. The life of her child was at stake, and so
was her possession of the farm. There was so much to be done before
November set in, and so few hands to accomplish all. The outdoor work
could not be neglected, or the live stock and the crops would suffer.
Yet _some one must_ remain indoors to watch the child, restless with
fever. Davy was willing, but Davy was too young, and lacked strength to
overcome resistance to nauseous draughts.

She was at her wits' end; could not neglect her child, dared not neglect
her farm.

In this emergency, Rhys made a suggestion that Mrs. Griffith might
perhaps be willing to spare her daughter Cate, a stout, red-haired,
good-looking lass about his own age, who had already shown her active
ability to make herself useful.

After some slight hesitation on the part of the girl's mother, it was
agreed that Cate should be at the farm early every morning, provided she
returned home in the evenings before nightfall. Her temporary services
were to be repaid with cheese made from the mixed milk of cows and ewes,
or other farm produce, a customary mode of payment for casual service.

Owen had suggested to his wife that the farm would be a good school for
their girl. She would see things done there, both by Mrs. Edwards and
Ales, that she had no chance of seeing at home, and she could have no
better training for future service.

The girl proved quite an acquisition. She was just as willing as Davy,
and more efficient. When not wanted beside William, she was ready to
relieve Ales at the churn or the scouring of pots and pails. Then she
had a fairly good temper and persuasive ways that made her a capital
nurse for a sick child with a resolute will.

Jonet took to her amazingly. She brought some pieces of striped flannel,
the refuse of her father's loom, and dressed up the little one's wooden
doll like a real Welshwoman. And she brought green rushes from the
brookside, and wove toy-baskets for her.

Or, while Davy was away in the fields filling baskets with freshly-dug
roots, or clearing the ground of stones (which many farmers in those
days believed to _grow_, just as surely as weeds), and Jonet was ready
to whimper for a playfellow, she would set down her knitting, or other
work, to play at cat's cradle or push-pins; and, finding that Davy had
tried to teach the little fingers to knit, she cast on stitches for a
doll's belt, and, with a little patience on both sides, the feat was
accomplished, and Jonet wonderfully proud of her new acquirement.

By thus amusing the healthy child longing for a romp, she preserved
quiet by the bedside of the sick one, whom an apothecary, brought all
the way from Caerphilly, pronounced 'in a critical state.'

Mrs. Edwards, anxiously coming and going, saw what a capital nurse she
made, and judged she was of better use there than in the fields. Rhys,
too, would put his head in through the open window now and then to ask
how his brother was getting on, and satisfied himself that he had shown
his discernment in suggesting Cate to his mother.

And when William began to recover, which was not until November had well
set in, no one was more willing to admit her obligations to the girl
than was Jane Edwards. Nay, she went so far as to send Rhys to light
Cate home when the shortening of the days caused her to be kept after
dark, and Rhys never raised any objection.

She had helped him on her first coming to strip the apple and pear trees
of their late fruit, and to separate such as were to be saved for the
market from those to be thrown into the mash-tub and crushed for cider.
And on the first day that William was allowed to sit at an open door, he
watched her and Rhys preparing the winter store of fire-balls, so
willing was she to help in any way. Propped up in bed, he had seen
Robert Jones once or twice lead a mule and an ass up the steep path with
heavily-laden barrels slung across; but though he called faintly to the
man through the open window, and was as usual inquisitive, he was little
wiser when told they 'brought culm and clay for fire-balls.'

Fire-balls were familiar things. Not so the culm or the clay, and to
satisfy his persistent curiosity he was promised if he would keep quiet
he should witness their conversion into the hard balls.

A few yards from the house he saw on one side a great heap of black dust
(the refuse of hard coal). This, barefooted Cate was riddling through a
wire sieve (the very sieve Breint had brought safely home, though he
lost the buyer), flinging away into a separate heap all that was too
coarse to pass through the sieve. At a distance on the other side was
laid a quantity of yellow clay, portions of which Rhys was moistening
with water, beating and turning over with a spade, and when of the
proper consistence adding, a spadeful at a time, the fine black dust
Cate had sieved, to be again mixed and kneaded like dough, and finally
worked with the hands into round hard balls, which he set aside to dry
for fuel.

The eagerness with which the pale little adventurer watched these grimy
processes, his questions and quaint remarks, quite amused the two
workers, but his searching interrogations speedily posed both of them;
and when he wanted to know what _was_ coal, and what was clay, and why
they mixed the two together to make them burn, he was greeted with fresh
laughter, and an impatient, 'Oh, don't bother,' or its Welsh equivalent,
from Rhys.

But the little inquirer, who sat with his head on one side, resting it
on his hand, was not contented with the put-off; and when Robert Jones
came with a load of peat that afternoon, he was plied with the same
questions.

The man smiled. His own information did not go very far, but he did his
best to reach infantile understanding; told him that the clay was a kind
of earth dug from the river-side, and that coal grew underground, and
was brought up in baskets out of a deep hole by a horse that was always
walking round and round to wind them up to the top by a rope that wound
round a thick wooden post.[10]

This was a puzzler for William. He wanted to be taken there and then to
see the horse go round and round.

Ales, coming at that moment to pay the man, hoping to put a check on the
child's new notion, exclaimed--

'Name o' goodness, do you want the black man to carry you away down the
dark pit-hole, where you would never see us any more whatever?'

'Me don't fink they 'ood. They don't take man down,' replied the child
sturdily; and at length the 'man,' ready to go about his business,
promised to take him to see the horse go round 'some day.'

''Oo said 'oo 'ood take me to see church, an' 'oo didn't,' then said
William in high dudgeon, and lapsed into sullen silence. In all his long
illness he had not forgotten the church he had seen but once.

'Never mind, Willem _fach_; if you are a good boy, perhaps mother will
let you ride with her to church on Breint next Sunday,' said Rhys in a
consolatory tone.

'Sure?' asked William, his face brightening.

'Not _sure_, but I will ask her.' And with that the little fellow seemed
satisfied.

The three youngsters were in bed when Rhys made his suggestion over the
frugal supper-table. It brought on a sharp controversy, in which Ales
joined very freely.

Mrs. Edwards was undecided. She 'feared the child would not be strong
enough to sit through the service after the long ride.'

''Deed, there's no fear o' that,' put in Ales; 'but it's Jonet's turn to
go to church, before a babe that can't make head or tail of a word
that's said; and more like take Davy than either. There's no good of
humouring children.'

'Well, I don't know what queer fancy he has got into that curious head
of his,' argued Rhys; 'but I think it would be best to humour him this
time, lest he should be setting off again, and'--

'Humour him, indeed! More like be giving him a good whipping,'
interrupted Ales. 'There's no end to his queer fancies. It's master
over us all he will be soon, I'm thinking.'

Evan had been silent. He agreed with Rhys. 'It is never too soon to
learn the way to church,' said he. 'I will carry him there on my
shoulders.'

There was a sigh of relief from Mrs. Edwards. 'Ah, then,' she exclaimed,
'Jonet and Davy can take turns on Breint. If it be fine,' she added. She
was disinclined to be severe with William at any time, and after his
long illness she felt unwilling to thwart him. Yet she had misgivings
about indulging the obstinate self-will, 'so like his poor father's,'
she told herself, with another sigh. Evan's proposal was hailed as a
compromise that would, at least, content Rhys.

Not altogether. He was not content that Evan should usurp his
prerogative. _He_ was the one to carry his brother if he must be
carried. He considered his own proposal the fittest; but, perhaps,
ashamed of his foolish jealousy, and remembering the boy's weight, kept
his opinion to himself.

November though it was, Sunday happened to be fine. Whatever mist there
might be on the mountain-tops, there was no thick smoke to blacken it,
and down in the valley it was clearing off.

William and Jonet were in high glee. The little girl had not yet been to
church, and he had led her to expect something marvellous. After illness
children pick up their strength more rapidly than adults. The week had
done wonders for the boy, who had been trotting indoors and out for two
or three days.

He saw Jonet seated on a pillow in front of his mother on Breint, but
was very much too much of a man to accept the proffered shoulders of
Evan.

'Me walk well as Davy and Rhys,' maintained he proudly, and trudged on
sturdily so long as the road descended and had been clean washed by
rain. But little legs cannot keep the pace with long ones, any more than
can short purses with long ones, and after a time the weary little limbs
were glad of a mount on the big broad shoulders. Yet even then he made
the excuse of 'uncomfrable shoes an' 'tockings.'

He did not talk much as they went, but cast his eyes from side to side,
evidently taking note of wayside landmarks. Other people in their Sunday
best were also on the road, and exchanged greetings in passing. He was
apparently on the watch for Robert Jones, whose cottage of rough stone
he recognised at a glance. He expected the 'man' and his donkey to be
there also, and expressed his disappointment. But it was not until they
passed under the shade of the dark firs that lined the roadside boundary
of the vicar's glebe lands, when the lych-gate and the church, with its
long body and massive square tower, were full in view, that he became
demonstrative.

Breint had been left at a small inn at the foot of the hill, and then
William was pleased to dismount from his perch, and, with quite an air
of patronising superiority, to take his sister by the hand as if to lead
her up the hill, and over the stone stile to astonish her sight with all
that had astonished him.

The bells were swinging and ringing over their heads, as they had been
ringing for nearly half an hour, but they were early, and whilst Mrs.
Edwards and Rhys walked together to their new grave, William stood still
with his eyes fixed on the great church tower with childish awe and
admiration.

Presently he startled Evan with the strange questions: 'How did it get
there? Did it grow?'

His pointed finger showed to what it referred.

'Grow, child? No. It was built.'

'What is built?'

'Men brought stones, look you, and put them together.'

'How?'

''Deed, William, you do be asking queer questions. I will, maybe, show
you how it was built next week.'

'Will you? Could me build big church if me was big man?'

''Deed, and perhaps you might help.'

'Then me _will_.'

At that moment, to Evan's relief, Mrs. Edwards caught her little boy by
the hand to lead him inside, Davy having taken charge of Jonet.

Church, clergyman, congregation, service--all were strange to the girl.
Her head turned this way and that; now with a smile as she recognised
some familiar face; but ere long she wearied, and, not being allowed to
talk, she fell asleep, and slept, with her head against her mother's
cloak, throughout the sermon.

Not so William. The service was no more intelligible or interesting to
him, but his unsatisfied, wide-awake eyes were everywhere exploring the
sacred interior; his little mind lost in large wonder at the length of
the building and the lofty roof overhead, so much larger to a child's
imagination than its actuality. And how far his crude speculations went
must remain a mystery to the end of time.

The service over, Mrs. Edwards, holding Jonet by the hand, joined the
stream of worshippers on their way to the porch, nothing doubting that
she was followed by her boys. Once in the wide churchyard, dotted with
upright slabs of stone, over which two magnificent yew-trees had stood
sentinel for centuries, the congregation broke up into groups and family
parties, to greet each other, and discuss alike the affairs of
individuals, of the nation, and of the widespread parish--so widespread,
indeed, that families whose ancestors lay all around lived too far apart
for the meeting of kith and kin, except on the seventh day and on the
common God's acre. Young people too--cousins and friends--clasped hands
and blushed, or looked shyly at each other when only that was possible.
The old vicar, too, when disrobed, would saunter from one group to
another, shaking hands and inquiring about asthma, rheumatism, crops,
and sweethearts, with genial impartiality. Here he would admonish one,
there advise another; now his voice was low in condolence, anon cheery
in congratulation; and, unless when there was some dispute over tithes,
none ever turned towards him the cold shoulder.

He greeted the widow thus: 'Ah, Mrs. Edwards, I observe you have brought
your whole family with you to-day. That is as it should be. "Train up a
child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart
from it."'

'Yes, sir,' she answered respectfully, 'I brought them all--Willem'--she
looked round; 'Rhys, where is Willem?'

'Ah, indeed, yes, where is the little fellow? I heard he had been very
ill.'

Another assent, another look round, the boy was nowhere within sight.
But Evan was seen stalking towards the porch, and in a couple of minutes
out he came leading the boy by the hand.

He had found him standing in front of the communion-table, looking with
awestruck eyes down the whole length of the church, but he suffered Evan
to lead him away without demur.

By that time, however, the vicar had gone, and Rhys, who had been round
the church to look for the absentee, came back cross and ill-tempered.
He had promised Cate to walk home along with her and her father, and had
not been too well pleased to see them pass out over the stile beside the
lych-gate, whilst he was still seeking what he could not find.

'Where had you got to, you young plague?' he cried, with a frown on his
face, taking the boy by the shoulders and shaking him angrily. 'You are
always running off somewhere. But I'll thrash you if you do it again.'

The mother interposed, but the harmony of the hour and the peace of the
sacred place were alike disturbed, and Rhys marched off sullenly in
advance, hardly caring whether he overtook the weaver and his daughter
in his ill-humour.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] This was the old method of drawing coal and pitmen to the surface,
until superseded by machinery. Wells and mills were similarly worked.
And still horses are so employed to draw up yachts on the sea-shore, the
rope passing round a block.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS.


Evan was one of those capable individuals, who, through making good use
of eyes and ears, can turn their hands readily to anything. In those
days, before the 'division of labour' had been formulated into a creed,
the class was more common, and still in remote country places
individuals of the type may be found. In addition to his field-work he
had helped the shepherd to mend the stone fence of his sheepfold, and
had made the ragged roof of the cattle-shed wind and weather proof with
the heather Rhys had cut down. He had yet to demonstrate his 'all-round'
faculty in the performance of a promise made, in the first place, to
Mrs. Edwards, and secondly, to little William.

It was quite a common thing in Wales, as it is in Ireland to this day,
for the pigs to wander over the farm, or out in the roads, poking their
snouts into the proprietor's kitchen as a matter of course, and making
free with root-crops meant for human beings. But as it happened that
Mrs. Edwards and Evan had experience of a better state of things, they
were agreed as to its adoption.

Consequently, at the beginning of the week, William, who had begun to
follow Evan about like a small shadow, was delighted to watch him and
Lewis clear away a large space among the outbuildings, and Robert Jones
came two or three times with loads of rough stones from a local quarry,
which his two patient beasts drew on the singular sleds or sledges that
did duty for wheeled carts in those mountain regions.

But it was the process of piling and fitting these loose and shapeless
stones on one another, so as to bind together in a firm and compact wall
without cement, that kept William dancing with excitement unfelt by
either passive Davy or Jonet, to whom a stitch more or less in their
knitting appeared of vastly more importance than the raising of a common
wall. It might suit William to caper about, or to stagger under a
voluntary load of stone, and fancy he was helping, it did not much
interest them.

Yet these children were no blinder than the world at large to 'the day
of small things.'

But when they noticed the rising walls shaping into two adjoining square
enclosures with little doorways, across which he placed long, flat
pieces of wood to support the upper courses of stone, and beheld a
conical roof rise over each in genuine Welsh form, and learned that the
two small houses were for the pigs to live in, Davy himself set up an
exclamation of surprise, as Rhys had done before him. And, no doubt,
Evan would have been equally surprised had he been told that the beehive
form was as ancient as the habitations of those early British ancestors
who fled to the Cambrian mountains for refuge from the Roman and Saxon
invaders.

Astonishment was exhausted when Williams, the Eglwysilan carpenter, on
the Wednesday, brought a couple of stout wooden troughs and gates, for
by that time each conical sty had been supplied with a small walled
forecourt of its own, and Evan had covered the earthen floors with a
thick carpet of dry fern for the pigs to lie upon. And whilst the man
was at work fixing up the gates, he made a broom of ling, and began
scrubbing the dirty old sow vigorously, to make her fit for her clean
abode. The pigs grunted and the children laughed. So did Williams, the
carpenter, to whom pig-scrubbing was a novelty. And so did Rhys, who
came up the yard at the time, his lip curling with fine scorn.

But Ales, who had lived with her mistress long enough to imbibe her
advanced notions of cleanliness, and had, besides, a natural vein of
good sense in her composition, called out from the unshuttered dairy
window, where she stood drawing a knife through and through the
newly-churned butter to remove accidental cow-hairs before making up:
'Them as likes good bacon should be caring for the swine. There's fools
as would rather be sticking in the mud than mending the roads.'

Having delivered this oracular rebuke to the scorners, she resumed her
butter-making with renewed energy, none the less for the swift glance
and smile of approval she had seen on Evan's quickly upturned face.

She and Evan were becoming as good friends as he and William, and he did
not affect to despise an additional friend on the hearth where Rhys was
silently hostile. Beyond the bounds of the farm he felt he could defend
himself, if necessary.

But it would be as easy to defend oneself from a fog as from the
whisperings of envy or the shrugs and jeers of ignorance.

Already was the voice of prophecy upraised among the Sunday gossips that
Evan Evans would bring ruin on Brookside Farm with his foolish new ways.

The very carpenter who had taken the order for the woodwork of the new
sties had tuned saw and plane to laughter, and hammered down his
conviction that 'Mrs. Edwards would be finding out the folly too late.'
And listening lag-behinds shook their shock-heads and fell back on the
old Welsh proverb: 'Ah, a widow's goods will soon be gone.'

When these whisperings reached the widow in the guise of advice from
well-meaning cousins in all degrees of affinity, she put them down with
a short, decisive answer: 'Look you, I do have my ways, you do be having
yours. Keep your own spade for your own farm.'

She wondered how the petty details of new management had reached so many
ears, and gave Lewis a sharp hint not to gossip about what did not
concern him. But she never suspected Rhys of dropping the word-seeds
that rose up around them as ill weeds of speech and thought.

She had seen Rhys kick over wantonly a miniature wall that William was
attempting to 'build' across the threshold with Evan's refuse stone
chippings, and she had rebuked him sharply when he flung out angrily the
small collection the child had brought indoors to 'build' with--just
such a heap as a modern boy's box of bricks--not taking his pretence of
'a litter' as an excuse. She had gone so far as to insist on the
restoration of the 'poor darling's playthings'; but just as she failed
to hear him delegate to Davy the task of picking up the scattered
treasures William was crying for, so she failed to suspect her eldest
born of any ungenerous feeling towards Evan, or any unworthy comment on
private affairs to strangers.

So long as roads were passable, and skies at all propitious, Mrs.
Edwards was certain to ride to Caerphilly market, companioned by Rhys,
less for protection than for his instruction. When Aquarius was reckless
with his water-pot, Evan alone bestrode Breint, and seldom failed to
make a good market.

Equally, when Sundays were fine, Mrs. Edwards went to church, and with
her Rhys and one of the younger ones; Evan's shoulders being always at
the service of William rather than disappoint the boy. Yet, when the
broken weather kept the house-mother and children from Sunday service,
Ales was prompt and ready to accompany Rhys and Evan, even when the
morning mist became a drizzle or a blinding fog. Umbrellas were unknown,
and, therefore, unmissed. Cased in her thick, dark-blue cloak, its large
hood drawn over her low-crowned, black-felt man's hat, and the white
linen cap under that, she seemed to heed the weather as little as her
companions in their heavy coats, and generally came back, after her long
barefooted walk, as rosy and bright as if the sun had been shining
overhead, and the pathway of velvet sward.

If Rhys started with them, he had a trick of deserting them, and joining
Owen Griffith and Cate. But he was so far his own master, and, as they
made no complaint, Mrs. Edwards had no suspicion of his defection, or of
an intimacy so close as to have become confidential.

And, although Owen had been one of the first to follow Mrs. Edwards'
lead in the matter of whitewashing and window-glazing, and had been a
very good friend and adviser to the widow in her hour of sorest need,
and would have been the first to rise in her defence, neither his wife,
nor Cate, nor it may be himself, was above the bird-like propensity to
pick up stray crumbs of confidence, or to drop them for other
well-meaning, bird-like chatterers to pick up. So it came about that
little was done on the farm that was not discussed half over the parish.

Yet, notwithstanding proverb or prophecy, the widow's goods were in no
danger from unthrift.

Whether rain or fair, whosoever went to church or stayed at home,--and
as the winter advanced the roads became impassable,--no sooner was the
kitchen cleared after the simple dinner, than the big Welsh Bible was
laid reverently upon the table, and either Mrs. Edwards or Rhys read a
chapter or two aloud, she venturing to expound the text to immature
understandings.

Theologians might have smiled, or shaken their wise heads over her
expositions, but she was a clear-headed woman, and seldom dived below
her depth.

She never allowed anything to break into this Sunday custom. It was a
family bond drawing them all closer together; even the youngest bringing
their low wooden stools nearer, and listening with attention not common
where books and other objects of interest are many.

In the wet and snowy winter months, when outdoor labour was restricted
and the days short, indoor work was at its busiest. Doors would be
closed to keep out the cold winds, Evan would bring fresh squares of
peat and fire-balls to keep the hearth aglow. He would take the place of
Ales at the churn, or would hang up the big porridge-pot, or (if
cheese-making was about, though there was little cheese made in the
winter) the great whey-pot, with hearty goodwill to help her. Then a
candle would be alight, and whilst the cat and dog lay basking in front
of the fire, all, down to the youngest, would have some useful or
profitable occupation.

It was then Mrs. Edwards' spinning-wheel went round the swiftest, and
sang its song of industry the loudest.

In former days her husband had combed the wool, and was teaching Rhys
how to fling the tufts of greasy and matted wool over the heated iron
combs set in an upright staff, and to draw them out like the long locks
of a woman's hair. She had always sorted her own fleeces. We are all
familiar with the sign of 'The Golden Fleece.' Well, just so the fleece
of a sheep hangs together after it is sheared away, but in every fleece
are several different qualities of wool, and the sorting and separating
those qualities calls for a discriminating touch. This continued to be
her task, though Evan took the wool-combing in hand, Rhys having an
occasional turn with the coarser sorts.

Ales, in generous rivalry with her mistress, having no second
spinning-wheel, took up her distaff, as did half the women in the
Principality, and set her spindle dancing on the floor as she drew out
her thread of wool or linen.

Knitting was taken up by any one of them when not otherwise employed.

Thus Rhys plied his knitting-pins with ease and certainty, and the long
blue or black woollen stockings grew under his fingers, whilst he
proudly exercised his dead father's function, and taught his sister and
brothers to read.

It was a tedious occupation; and he might not have taken it up from
choice, or accepted the office willingly, but the monotonous drawl of
the learners sounded an undertone to the musical hum of his mother's
wheel, and set his heart aglow with the feeling that, however and
wherever Evan had superseded him, in _that_ at least _he_ represented
his dead father, and was, in his own opinion, the head of the house,
having authority over the younger ones.

It made him more patient with them than he otherwise might have been.
And it kept under his reluctance to teach little William his letters,
when the child, with a laudable desire to look big and do what Davy and
Jonet did, insisted on an introduction to the painted characters on his
sister's battledore.[11]

'Me tree years old,' Willie had pleaded, when Rhys asserted that he was
too young to learn, and when that did not serve, 'Me ask Evan, Evan
teach me,' was quite sufficient. Rhys drew his dark brows together, but
he put down his knitting and pointed to the letters without another word
of objection.

Having thus, as it were, compelled his brother to teach him as a favour,
he stuck to his self-imposed task with unflagging determination, as if
he had something to master that must be mastered. And, perhaps, not the
less persistently because, with all a sharp child's acute perception, he
saw he was having his own way in spite of Rhys. Having his own way also
in being free to build walls and houses on the great chest under the
window with his accumulating bits of stone.

That is, until Ales came at an early hour and swept his building
materials into a corner, and swept him and Jonet off to bed with equal
promptitude, barely waiting whilst they said their simple prayers.

Work (the knitting, spinning, and wool-combing) did not cease until the
general supper-time, about eight o'clock; but conversation lightened it,
the distance between mistress and servants being scarcely felt or
perceptible, though one directed and the others obeyed.

Sometimes Evan might have occasion to look after a sick beast, or Ales
to prepare a warm mash, or the shepherd might come in to report the
condition of his flock; but so, with little variation, went on the
routine of the farm, until renewing spring brought fresh activities and
outdoor occupations.

Spring, too, brought wizened Mr. Pryse, the agent, intrusively prying
round the farm, his half-shut eyes scanning homestead and tillage with
eager craving to discover signs of the mismanagement over which rumour
had been busy.

FOOTNOTE:

[11] An oblong board about ten inches long by eight wide, on which the
alphabets and simple syllables were painted. It was furnished with a
handle. In many cases the letters were printed and covered with a
transparent slice of horn. It was then called a hornbook.




CHAPTER IX.

THE BAFFLED AGENT.


Mr. Pryse mounted his horse and trotted away from the farm, biting his
long nails as he went in sheer vexation. His survey had not been as
satisfactory to himself as he had anticipated. The land was in good
cultivation, and every one was at work upon it. In one brown field lime
lay in round, white heaps; compost, from the farmyard, showed in dark
patches, ready for distribution on the grass land. In one field Evan was
sowing oats; in another plot, where the spade had turned over the ground
in well-defined furrows, Rhys was dibbling holes for planting, and Davy
followed, dropping in something he carried in a small basket, which
would have baffled the sharp optics of the observer, had he not come
across Ales, besides a heap of seed potatoes, cutting them up into
pieces where the eyes were beginning to shoot, and seen Davy bring his
empty basket for a fresh supply.

'Mrs. Edwards do be in the house, sir,' said the young woman, as a hint
that his inquisitorial observation was unpleasant; and, after a sneer at
what he called 'experimental farming,' the hint had been taken.

He had already been on to the moorlands to inspect sheep and goats, and
put the shepherd through the fine sieve, and had come back over
newly-sown crops, or springing shoots of green ones, heedless where the
hoofs of his horse might fall. Had he been lord of the land in full
possession, he could scarcely have been more indifferent; had he been
tenant, he might have been more careful. As he neared the homestead, and
saw barn and outbuildings in good repair, where he had expected
dilapidation, he pressed his thin lips close together, but when he came
upon the newly-erected sties, the thin lips spread, and made an abortive
attempt to curl.

'So that is how you propose to carry on your farm, is it? Aping the
gentry!' he said, with a sneer, addressing Mrs. Edwards as he
dismounted, the sound of hoof-beats having brought her to the dairy
door. 'Do you imagine it will pay _you_ to house your hogs? You will be
for putting your goats into limbo next.'

[Illustration: 'SO THAT IS HOW YOU PROPOSE TO CARRY ON YOUR FARM?' HE
SAID, WITH A SNEER.--_See page 106._]

''Deed, and I wish I could,' was her response. 'They do so much damage
to the trees and thatch.'

'Ugh! And pray where did _you_ see hogs so accommodated? Not in the Vale
of Glamorgan, I know. We don't house pigs as snugly as our labourers.'

'Sure, sir, it was in England, when I was in service there. And at
Castella and Llantwit. But, perhaps, sir, you will be coming in and have
a glass of cider and a bite of bread and cheese?'

He looked snappish enough to take a bite at her--or her farm--as he
answered: 'England, indeed! Surely Welsh ways are best for Welsh
people. You will not find English ones prosper here.'

Nevertheless, he followed her into the house, noticing as he went that
the dairy had been enclosed and partitioned off close to the jamb of the
outer door, and was shut in by its own door on the left, so as to
preserve it from the dust of traffic across, and from the open storage
on the right.

'Is that another of your English ways?' he asked, as he passed on.

'Yes, sir.'

'Humph! And your wheel, and your glass windows, and your potatoes? You
will not find many imitators, Mrs. Edwards.'

''Deed, sir, and I don't be looking for imitators, whatever; unless,
perhaps, my children and my servants may be for teaching theirs, as I do
be teaching them.'

She had spread a clean, homespun linen cloth on the table under the
cheese and the jug of cider, even though she disliked the agent and
suspected his errand. Private feeling must not interfere with
hospitality.

He, for his part, accepted her attentions as a right, making as free
with the cheese and bread and cider as if they had been ordered at an
inn, with the relishing consciousness they would not have to be paid
for.

'Perhaps,' said he, after a good draught of the cider, 'you learned to
make _that_ in England too?' the old ugly smile on his thin lips.

'Partly, sir. In Herefordshire.'

Narrowed as were the slits between his eyelids, nothing escaped his
roving eyes.

'What's that?' he ejaculated, pointing with his riding whip, as he rose
to depart, to a rudely-constructed tower William was raising on the oak
chest with his stone chips. The boy had backed into a corner in front of
his sister Jonet, as if he recognised a foe in the stranger. Shyness he
had none.

His mother explained. 'Willem's building a Tower of Babil.'

'Humph! If he can do that, he might be set to something useful. There,'
said Mr. Pryse, 'that will find him employment,' and, with a stroke of
his whip, he swept down the boy's tower, a malicious chuckle shaking his
skinny throat as he strode out of the kitchen to mount his horse.

As he rode away he heard a boy's passionate scream behind him, and felt
the sharp pelting of a couple of small stones between his shoulders. He
turned round in his saddle, and shook his whip-hand at the child, who,
with face aflame, cried after him--

[Illustration: HE TURNED AND SHOOK HIS WHIP-HAND AT THE CHILD.--_See
page 110._]

'You bad man! bad man, you!'

But he only chuckled, as if the incident amused him.

His satisfaction was but temporary, and before he had well reached the
level he began biting his nails with vexation, for he saw only signs of
improved husbandry, nothing on which he could pounce as betokening ruin.

After a few days came a more welcome visitor to the farm, in the guise
of a travelling packman, with his string of mules, on his rounds to
collect the stockings, flannels, blankets, and linseys, knitted and
woven in the farms and cottages scattered among the mountains or grouped
in villages. For these he was willing to pay in coin, but he preferred
to exchange for the English goods with which his beasts were laden, not
so much of ribbon and laces, gaily-coloured gown-pieces, or cheap
trinkets, as of useful hardware, knives, forks, spoons, crockery, pots
and pans, needles, pins, tapes, and buttons; such goods as were in
general demand for household use. Very rarely did he display any more
gorgeous drapery than a silken neckerchief, or a bright ribbon for a
bow. The Welsh still clung to their national costume, and, with few
exceptions, were clothed entirely in woollen of native growth and
manufacture. Still he carried hats with him, and the flannels or duffle
collected in one part he could dispose of elsewhere.

The jingling bells on his leading mule proclaimed his arrival. There was
a general rush to surround him and inspect his wares, the children
crowding in with the rest, and the clack of tongues was indescribable.

His periodical visits were the great events of the year. The first duty
was that of hospitality. Oaten bread and cheese and milk were set before
him, and the winter's pile of knitted stockings and mittens brought out
whilst he refreshed. These, as the man knew of old, had to be examined,
priced, and paid for before Mrs. Edwards would allow one of his packs or
panniers to be unloaded. Then ensued the bargaining for bright-coloured
mugs and bowls; there was no need of teacups and saucers, for no one
drank tea. It was almost an unknown luxury there. Jonet and William
were favoured with a mug apiece, adorned with waves of bright blue on a
yellow ground. Rhys had a new hat. Davy plucked at his mother's skirts
and reminded her that he was to be finally breeched when the packman
came round, and he was not disappointed.

Something was wanted and bought for house and everybody.

Ales, who had smartened herself up of late, invested in a
bright-coloured cotton kerchief or shawl to be worn crossed over her
short jacket, and a stout comb to keep her tangled locks in order; the
need for which she learned by surveying her own good looks in a
red-framed looking-glass Evan had given to her--a glass not larger than
his own right hand, but it was better as a mirror than the broken water
under the spring, and might be taken as an earnest of his especial
goodwill.

The ensuing rent was paid duly; and, in spite of prophecies and
forecasts, it was as duly paid in succeeding years.

But Mr. Pryse grew no more civil; indeed, he seemed ever on the watch
for some pretext to turn the widow and her children off the farm she had
done so much to improve. He had never forgiven Edwards for saying of
him, 'he was too grasping to be altogether honest,' and, when the farmer
was drowned, rejoiced as only an evil-minded curmudgeon could do.

It was no satisfaction to him, as years went by, to see one whitewashed
cottage after another stand out like a pearl among emerald fields and
foliage, and know whose house had been the model. Nor could he hear of
Owen Griffith and others venturing on a potato crop without a sneer. And
he positively snarled when he heard the prices the widow's piglings and
bacon brought in the market. Not that he ascribed the prosperity of Mrs.
Edwards to her own good management. No; he set that down to Evan Evans
and his previous initiation on the Castella estate. He owed the
farm-servant a grudge accordingly. He rejoiced when he heard that Rhys
regarded Evans as an interloper, and never missed an opportunity, by
subtle sneer or insinuation, to fan the supposed antagonism into an
active flame.

As years rolled on, and he saw the down of incipient manhood darken on
the lip of Rhys, ever his mother's escort on rent-days, his innuendoes
became broader and stronger. There was an air of self-sustained
mastership about the sturdy young fellow that suggested ripe soil for
his weeds.

'Humph!' said he, when Rhys was about eighteen; 'I should have thought a
stout chap like you might have saved your mother the cost of a _head
man_.'

At a later date: 'Well, young man, I never expected your father's son to
submit to a servant's rule so long.'

Had there been any _submission_ in the case, Rhys would have taken fire
at once. No hints would have been needed to provoke rebellion that would
have led to the ousting of Evan. But the latter had never presumed to
_give orders_, and, of late, had deferred to Rhys as his 'young
master.'

Whatever suggestions he made in farming matters were made to Mrs.
Edwards. Command rested with _her_.

Then Rhys had conceived a mortal antipathy to the agent that first
rent-paying day, and he suspected a sinister motive in every word that
fell from the ill-natured, thin lips.

And it had been made a condition, by the shrewd widow, that Rhys should
bridle his tongue, and allow nothing said by Mr. Pryse to provoke hasty
reply, or she must take Evan in his stead as witness. Yet it was hard
sometimes for either to listen quietly to the agent's coarse and
insulting speeches, of which his noble employer had no suspicion.

Some of his sharpest bullets were fired from a double-barrelled gun.
'Well, Mrs. Edwards, I hear you and Evan Evans are about to make a match
of it at last. How soon is this fine young man of yours to have a
step-father?'

A frown darkened the brow of Rhys, and an indignant retort was on his
tongue, but, before a second word was uttered, the frown changed to a
significant smile at a look from his mother.

It was an open secret at the farm that Ales and Evan were courting, and
only waited until they had saved enough money to set up housekeeping and
farming for themselves, as husband and wife.

Had Mr. Pryse but known it, there _was_ an element of disquiet and
rebellion at Brookside Farm, of which he might have taken advantage.

But he never gave a second thought to the boy whose walls he had
levelled so wantonly. He had not seen that same boy, his passion over,
pick up every scattered bit of stone, and patiently raise his walls once
more.

He had no suspicion how the strong will and pertinacity of that three
years child would come later into collision with the mastership of his
eldest brother, or the important part these stone chips would play in
William's life, or how they might affect the welfare of the whole
county, or make an enduring name when his own was forgotten.




CHAPTER X.

FRIENDS AND BROTHERS.


There was no necessity for Mr. Pryse to suggest 'employment' for little
William. In the last century, and far into this, children were set to
work and expected to earn their own living at a wofully early age, and
that long before machinery came into use and drove them into factories
to be the slaves of brutal overseers, who scored their six and eight
year old backs with weals from whip or stick on the slightest
provocation. William Hutton, the historian, tells how he, a small child
of seven years, was apprenticed, in 1730, to an overseer of Lombe's silk
mill, in Derby, how he had to wear high pattens to reach the machine,
had to rise at five in the depth of winter and hurry to work, slipping
down on the ice as he ran, and how he was beaten till his back was all
festering sores. And this was no uncommon case. I, who write this, can
remember when the little barefooted children went to the cotton
factories and print works at five in the morning, and worked till seven
or eight at night.

The boys and girls of this generation have no conception how children
were trained and treated a few generations back. Not the poor only. The
children of even rich parents had to endure painful punishments both at
school and at home, and were fed sparely on coarse food for their
health's sake. The late noble Lord Shaftesbury related how he and a
sister were well-nigh starved in their childhood through the negligence
of parents and servants.

History and biography teem with such instances. So that when I state
that William Edwards and Jonet were sent into their mother's fields to
weed, and pick up stones, and scare the birds away from newly-sown lands
before the boy was six years old, I cast no reflection on his mother,
who had no experience of a different state of things.

Nay, for her time, she was enlightened, and being a woman with good
natural feeling, she was careful they were not taxed beyond their
strength, as she and her husband had been; but that children should
spend their hours in play, when they were old enough to be of use, had
never dawned on her imagination. She considered she was doing her duty
by them in setting them early to work, especially as she was careful
they should be taught to read also.

Davy worked in field and farm, alongside Rhys, without a murmur of
hardship. And when Jonet was first set to feed the chickens, or to look
for the eggs of hens that laid away, to pull peas or beans, or to shell
the latter for the pot (peas were boiled in the pod), imitative William,
always at her heels, and wanting to show his own cleverness, set himself
to do likewise.

And so long as he set himself voluntarily to work to assist Jonet, he
was busy as a bee, and proud of his doings. Or when his mother or Ales
sent him hither or thither to fetch or carry, or directed him to perform
small services, he was as willing and amenable to order as most boys of
his age. But no sooner did Rhys take advantage of his precocious
industry, and exercise an assumed right to command, and bid him do this
or that, than William began to rebel.

He was docile enough to his brother as a teacher. He was more eager to
learn to read than Rhys was to instruct. Davy and Jonet took their
spelling and reading lessons as compulsory tasks--Davy placidly, and
Jonet with uneasy disfavour--but William with an absolute desire to
_know_.

He no sooner discovered that the Ten Commandments painted up in the
church, and the inscriptions on the upright gravestones in the
churchyard, were just made up of the alphabetical characters on his
painted battledore, and that the big Bible his mother read aloud to them
was all a mixture of the same letters, than a craving to penetrate the
mystery of these combinations seized him. He felt he had achieved
something when he made his first grand discovery on a headstone taller
than himself; but when, at his request, Evan read out the inscription,
his perplexity and curiosity increased.

It was singular to see the little fellow--he was short for his
age--Sunday by Sunday tracing letter or word, with tiny finger, on some
grey old slab, while his seniors were gossiping all around.

'I tell you what,' said Rhys to him one Sunday when so employed, 'you
might have been born in a stone quarry. I'm sure you ought to live in
one, you do be so fond of the dirty rubbish.'

'What's a stone quarry?' put in William, with wide-open eyes.

'Oh, bother! It's a place where stone grows,' was the impatient reply.

'Grows like trees?' and the wondering eyes of the six years old querist
opened still wider.

'Oh, what a plague you do be! No, grows like coal;' and away strode Rhys
to avoid further questioning--a common but very unsatisfactory way of
dealing with an inquiring child.

'I'll be asking Robert Jones, he will tell me,' said William to himself.
'Rhys do be caring more for Cate Griffith than for me, whatever,' his
aggrieved looks following his well-grown brother as he strode over the
grassy mound to join the weaver's wife and daughter under the
patriarchal yew-tree, with all the importance of incipient manhood.

The following day William was missing from the farm, but as this was not
uncommon, only slight uneasiness was felt until evening.

The boy had long before struck up a strange friendship with the
red-haired peat-cutter, who, in fulfilment of his early promise, had
taken him on his ass when bound to a colliery across the river for culm,
and there let him see the horse plodding round and round in a circle to
wind up coal and grimy colliers from the dark, deep pit-shaft, and let
down the empty tubs to be refilled. There the child had looked round in
wonder at the great black heaps of coal, and at the half-naked children
sent down the terrible dark hole, to work in the bowels of the mine, as
Robert Jones explained to him.

Later he had taken the little fellow to see how peat was cut with long,
narrow, flat shovels, 'shaped like a marrow-spoon,' from the boggy top
of Eglwysilan Mountain. And when his sled was loaded, he had placed the
child before him on the end of the sled, and gone sliding down the steep
mountain-side with him swiftly and securely, to the youngster's infinite
delight. He was too young to dream of danger, and to the man, long
practice had made the perilous descent safe and easy, swift as was the
downward motion, and sharp as was the jerk at the bottom. And many a
ride on the turf-cutter's sled did William have after that.

The man had no children of his own, and, perhaps, that was the reason he
took so kindly to the lad; answering his strange questions to the best
of his untutored ability, and frequently giving him a mount on one of
his patient beasts between tubs or panniers when going for loads, or
carrying them for sale not too far away. To him the child could open all
his wondering heart, fearing neither repulse nor ridicule, of which he
had too much at home; and so their friendship grew.

On that particular Monday morning, Robert Jones had started on a long
round, and nothing remained for the young inquirer, who had sought him
at his ordinary haunts, but to limp homeward in the afternoon, hungry,
footsore, and disappointed.

Cate Griffith, returning from the brook with a pitcher of water on her
head and another in her hand, caught sight of him as he was passing her
father's door.

'Name o' goodness!' she cried, 'what brings you here this time o' day?
Look you, father, here's little Willem Edwards!'

The weaver, then changing his shuttle, looked out from his casement
window, and in two minutes was at the door questioning the wanderer.

Without any shyness or reservation the boy told where he had been, and
for what; his brother's initiative remarks with the rest.

Cate, now a rosy-cheeked, buxom lass on the borderland of womanhood,
began to laugh outright, as she had often laughed before when Rhys
amused her with some story of William's out-of-the-way questions.

Her father checked her sternly. 'What do you be laughing at?'

''Deed, he do be so queer. Rhys do say he be always at play with bits of
stones. And now he asks if they do grow like trees. Oh, Willem, you are
droll!'

Again her laugh broke out. William, child though he was, crimsoned to
the roots of his brown hair. He seemed to comprehend that Rhys had made
a jest of him, and no one is more sensitive to ridicule than a child of
tender years.

'Carry your pitchers into the house, and stay there!' cried her father.
Then turning to the boy, who hesitated whether to linger or walk on, he
said kindly--

'Never mind Cate, my little man, she talks foolishness. Come and sit on
this bench beside me. I'll try to serve instead of Robert Jones.'

William's face lit up. He climbed to a seat by the weaver's side,
content to find he was no longer laughed at. And very intently he
listened to Owen's simple explanation that the mountain was nearly all
stone, and that a quarry was the place where strong men broke away the
stone for building walls and houses, and that the mountains had been
there ever since God created the world, so that he did not think stone
grew. And if Owen's was not a learned geological definition, it was all
the better adapted to juvenile comprehension. But, simple as it was, a
shower of whys and hows were rained on the exponent during its course.

Then William rose to depart, but something in his face, or in his
lagging gait, or a casual word, caused the weaver to interrogate the
boy. This elicited the admission that he had strayed away from home in
the morning, and that no one knew, and, moreover, that he was very
hungry.

Owen looked grave. He called for Cate to bring some bread and a cup of
milk, and began to read the boy a lesson on the inconsiderate wrong he
had done, and the anxiety he would cause his mother.

'You should never leave home without permission, Willem. Your poor
mother will be fretting and crying for fear lest you have fallen over
the rocks, or got into the river and been drowned, or lost your way on
the mountain as you did four years ago, when Evan found you asleep under
the Druids' rocking-stone. It is very cruel and wicked for a child to
stray from home without leave.'

William hung his head. 'I did not mean any harm,' he began; 'but,' in a
changed tone, 'what's the Druids?'--

'Oh, you're here, are you? A fine hunt you have given us all, you young
plague,' came in an angry shout from Rhys, who had crossed the brook and
was advancing at a run.

William's question died away unanswered. He got down from his stone seat
inclined to be penitent for his misbehaviour. Owen Griffith had shown
him that he had done wrong. He might have gone home and told his mother
he was sorry. But Rhys, who had been as much alarmed at his absence as
the rest, now he was found, caught him by the shoulder and shook him
roughly.

'Look you, if you do be running off again, I shall give you a good
thrashing.'

''Deed you won't,' was thrown back at him defiantly by William, whose
penitence was at an end.

'Won't I? You'll see. Sure, I've half a mind to do it now.'

'Nay, nay,' interposed Griffith. 'Willem is sorry. He did not know he
was doing wrong.'

'Then he will have to learn. It's quite time he made himself useful.
Jonet did before she was his age. And so did I. We can have no idlers
on our farm, whatever. Ah, Cate, is that you?' His voice had brought the
girl to the open window. She leaned out, blushing like a peony. He
joined her, and said something which made her giggle and provoked reply.
Then ensued some whispering and laughter. Rhys apparently forgot all
about William and his mother's anxiety whilst occupied so pleasantly,
for there was no doubt Cate had more than a third-cousinly attraction
for him, and chance opportunities for seeing her except on Sundays were
not frequent.

When his errand recurred to him, William had disappeared, and
notwithstanding Rhys' longer legs, the fatigue of the small ones, the
gathering dusk, and the steepness of the ascending path to the farm, the
truant crossed the threshold first.

At once uneasiness resolved itself into displeasure. He was scolded on
all sides, and threatened with the loss of a supper if ever he ventured
to give them such a fright again.

'I wanted Robert Jones,' was all the excuse he made. The scolding was
received with stolid silence, which was called sullenness.

Yet he had not forgotten Owen's picture of his mother's distress, or his
grave reproof for straying away, and had he been differently received,
he might have been contrite and sued for pardon.

It is a difficult matter, even in these analytic days, to search out the
inner workings of the child-mind, or to understand all that influences
wayward moods. How were those rudely-cultivated farmers to penetrate
beneath the surface, to see the undeveloped oak in the immature acorn?

'Robert Jones do be spoiling that boy,' said Mrs. Edwards, when the
child was in bed. 'I wonder what he wanted with the man?'

'Wanted? Sure, he wanted to ask if stones do grow like trees,' said
Rhys, in a tone of impatient scorn. 'It was only last week he did be
asking me if the trees made the wind, because it was always windy when
the trees tossed about.'

'Well, _don't_ they?' queried stolid Davy, amidst a roar of laughter, in
which even the mother joined.

'Now, don't you be as silly as Willem. I never before knew you ask such
a foolish question,' said Rhys dogmatically.

'No, Davy,' explained his mother, without stopping her busy wheel, 'it
is the wind that blows the trees about,'--an answer which sufficed for
him. He was not curious to learn what caused the winds, or whence they
came, as William had been. He accepted facts as they were, untroubled by
vain speculations.

Undoubtedly William--the father's namesake, her youngest born--was the
mother's darling, in spite of his odd ways. And however cross she might
have been overnight, in the morning, when the others had dispersed, she
took him to task for straying away without leave; not angrily, but
sadly, showing him the trouble he was likely to cause, and the anxiety
she had had, remembering the time when he was lost before.

It was a very effectual supplement to Owen Griffith's lecture; the
sensitive boy's feelings were touched. He threw his arms around her
neck, begged forgiveness, and promised the best of behaviour for the
future.

Alas, for a child's promises! William went to work beside Jonet like a
little man, helped in seed-time and harvest, and won commendations from
Ales and Evan. But he had his dreamy hours; he continued to pile up
stones in odd corners, and was alternately ridiculed and rebuked by
Rhys, whose interference he resented.

This went on for about two years, trying the patience of both, and then
came a more serious outbreak.




CHAPTER XI.

A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER.


William's rebellion had begun to show itself in sullen disregard of his
brother's orders. He was always active and willing when his mother or
Evan called him--Davy might convey a message, but never had an
independent order to give--he was Jonet's obedient bondslave, but when
Rhys demanded his services or attention he generally turned a deaf ear.
For this, Rhys--who considered his ten years' seniority quite a warranty
for control as his mother's deputy and his dead father's
representative--took him to task imperiously, not with any desire to be
knowingly overbearing, but from a stern sense of his own duty to a lazy
lad.

At length, one bright day in early spring, when William was little more
than nine years of age, he stood lingering after the midday meal close
beside the stone gate-posts of a field where Davy and Jonet were already
busy weeding a freshly springing crop of corn. His arms rested upon the
coping of the wall with his chin upon them, whilst he, looking down into
the fertile vale below--where glimpses of the shining river were
discernible like twinkling stars, through the tender green shoots which
veiled the swaying boughs on its densely-wooded banks--seemed lost in a
dreamy mist of speculative thought. The boy's reverie was rudely broken.

'Now then, lazyback! What do you be doing there?' called out Rhys, who
carried a spade on one shoulder and a wicker basket in his hand, which
he tossed down at his brother's feet. No answer coming, he called out
again, 'What do you be doing there?'

'I do be thinking,' came composedly from William.

'Thinking, indeed! I wish you would be thinking about your work. What
can you have to think about, whatever?'

''Deed, nobody knows my thinks,' replied the boy, without turning round.

'You will very soon know _my thinks_,' retorted Rhys, 'if you do not
pick up your basket, and get to your weeding. You are one of the "late
and lazy who will never be rich." Come, stir you.' And, as if to enforce
obedience, Rhys raised his disengaged hand and struck the other a sharp
blow across the shoulders.

At once William turned round, his cheeks and eyes aflame. Rhys thought
he was about to strike him back again.

Instead, he gave the empty basket a kick that sent it flying over the
ridges, and was out at the narrow gateway in an instant, with a defiant
air that seemed to dare Rhys to lay hands upon him again, or attempt to
draw him back.

That day he was seen no more upon the farm until nightfall, when he was
sent to bed supperless as a punishment.

He was up betimes in the morning, and had the fire alight before any one
else was astir. He was having a wash at the spring when Ales came into
the farmyard.

'Name o' goodness!' exclaimed she, 'what's got you out of bed so soon?
Want your breakfast, I suppose?'

William nodded in assent, on his way to the common towel.

'Do you think you be deserving any?'

'Does Rhys be deserving any?'

Ales had a proverb ready, 'Who does well, deserves well.'

'Is it doing well to call names and be striking his brother?'

Ales had no direct answer to that. 'Rhys says you are idle and should be
made to work. You do be playing with stones when you should be weeding
or knitting. _He_ does always be working hard,' she replied evasively.

Prompt was the retort, 'A big man should work, I will do better work
than Rhys when I am as big. 'Deed I will.'

This conversation had taken place during the hasty ablutions of Ales,
who had latterly grown uncommonly anxious to present 'a shining morning
face' to Evan when he appeared. As she combed out her hair at the
diminutive looking-glass he had bought her, as a hint, and which hung
beside the storehouse door, she began in an insinuating tone--

'And where did you be going yesterday, Willem? Did you be with Robert
Jones?'

'Never be you minding,' said the boy, walking past with a pitcher of
water for the porridge. And no further information could she or any one
else extract from him.

After that, whenever Rhys and he came into collision he disappeared, and
none could say whither he went or with whom. Cate or Owen Griffith might
see him pass the cottage door, and exchange a 'good-day' greeting, but
beyond that his wanderings were unknown.

In a mountainous parish like Eglwysilan, where was no village community,
where farms and cottages were mostly solitary and far apart, there was
little chance of encountering many strollers out of the main highway,
except on market-days.

Wandering aimlessly in his blind passion, on the day when Rhys had
struck him, hardly noting the way he went, he found himself all on a
sudden on what appeared to be a short, grass-grown roadway, bordered on
both sides by upright blocks of stone, more stunted and less shapely
than the slabs in the churchyard, but planted there with so much method
in their irregular intervals, they might indeed have been dwarf guards
to some great giant turned suddenly to stone by the magic art of a still
greater necromancer of the olden time, as he had heard.

Such legends were common on the domestic hearth. So that, although it
was a bright spring afternoon, an eerie feeling crept over the
passionate boy, especially when he found himself within a wide circle of
such stones, surrounding, in double file, a huge angular mass of like
stone, narrowing downwards from a flat top, capped by a second stone,
and delicately poised on the rounded point of a small conical base in a
hollowed depression of the natural rock, and in some sort bearing out
the simile of the petrified giant's throne.

As William looked upon this unshapely mass, some dreamy recollection
floated through his mind of having visited the spot before, when the
stones had seemed alive, and making mouths at him. Without nearing the
central stone, but keeping his eye upon it, he walked slowly round
within the inner circle, and, as he went discovered a second path
(leading north) corresponding with the one by which he had entered from
the south.

Then it dawned upon him this must indeed be the spot where he had lain
down faint and tired, when he was, oh, such a little boy, and had been
so frightened by the grim aspect of the stones, as the dark night had
come on, and he could not rise to get away.

Soon he ventured to touch the large central stone that had terrified him
before by giving way on the pressure of his tiny hand. It swayed and
rocked to and fro, and he drew back instinctively, but it did not fall.
And now he knew it surely for the great rocking-stone, and no longer
feared that it would fall and crush him so long as he was good and true,
for so the legend ran.

But now other doubts and fears oppressed him. These would be the very
Druid-stones Owen Griffith had named, and Robert Jones had warned him
not to seek, lest some great harm should come to him.

Was it true there were once men called Druids, and did they come to life
at midnight and nod to the moon, and to the big nodding-stones? Robert
Jones and Ales both said they did, though they had never ventured there
at midnight to see. They only looked like ill-shaped stones, too little
for men. But had they not made faces at him when he was a bit of a baby
crying there in the dark?

The boy's heart sank. He was not proof against the grim and weird
recollection. He took to his heels and ran out of the memory-haunted
circle by the stone-guarded avenue next to him, nor stopped until he had
left the desolate and barren spot far behind.

But where was he? That was not the way towards home. He stood on a wild
heath, high above the valley of the Taff, with the mountain rising and
stretching far away on his right hand, with here and there labourers
tilling the red-brown upland fields, and children at work beside them,
as he should have been working 'but for Rhys,' he told himself.

He did not know, and could not see it, but the Merthyr Tydvil road, such
as it was, lay sunk between the heath and the receding mountain. He had
only to gain that, and turn completely round, to find his way homeward.

He looked to the wooded declivity on his left, where birds were calling
to their mates under the swelling pinky buds or pale-green opening fans,
and the odour of wood violets came sweetly fresh in every breath he
drew. A rabbit rose and scuttered past him, and made for the underwood,
where the golden crosiers of trooping ferns were uncurling in their
beauty. The river ran far below, ran with an inviting rush. One moment,
and the boy had plunged into the wood. 'He would _not_ hurry home to be
struck by Rhys.'

He could easily find his way back with the river to guide him.

So, now slipping, now catching at the trunk of a tree to maintain a
foothold, he scrambled nearer to the river's brink, where was no more
perceptible path than what had been made by intruders like himself. Once
there he fancied the water was more than commonly disturbed; it was here
and there flecked with foam and swirled in eddies. 'Surely the river
must be in flood,' he said to himself.

A little way off a well-dressed young man was seated on a stone, fishing
with rod and line.

William had no shyness. 'Why does the water make such a noise to-day,
and be so rough?' he asked.

'Don't you know? It is from the falls. The river is always noisy here.
It is louder higher up the stream.'

'Oh,' said William; 'what are the falls?'

'Indeed you had better go on a bit farther and see for yourself, my lad.
But be careful how you go.'

The spirit of adventure was on the boy. He thanked the man and did 'go
on,' until he stood still with amazement, for there the full river came
leaping down, in broken falls, from rock to intercepting rock, some
fifteen feet in all; but they might have been fifty for what the
home-kept boy knew.

Strange is the fascination of living, leaping water. He stood there
gazing spellbound, lost in admiration, listening to the tumultuous
uproar, as the swift waters came rushing and flashing downwards,
striking themselves against the rocks into angry foam that William
mentally compared to suds when Ales was washing, only he never had seen
washing on so large a scale. If there were finer cascades in the world
he had not seen them. He was fascinated by what he did see, and lingered
long.

'I wonder if Rhys or Davy ever saw these falls?' he said to himself;
'they never told _me_. They tell _me_ nothing. But I will find out
things for myself.'

The fisherman was rising from his stone when William again drew near. He
had his rod and basket in hand prepared to go.

'Well, what do you think of the falls?'

'Oh, 'deed, and they was wonderful--and terrible. I was thinking how
soon they would drown a man.'

'Yes, or a boy either. Which way are you going?'

'By the riverside, through the wood as far as the ford.'

'That will not be safe at this hour. You might slip into the stream. You
had best go back the way you came.'

'I--I dare not,' stammered William.

'Dare not? Yet you are not afraid to go through these pathless woods by
the riverside at dusk, though a false step might be fatal. Come along
with me; I'll see you on a safe road.'

William followed through the ascending wood cautiously as before, ready
to brave anything with such a companion.

The sun had not set when they stood upon the heath above, and then the
stranger inquired--

'Well, my boy, of what are you afraid?'

'Of going past the Druids' stones, sir.'

'So you are superstitious? What harm can a few old stones do to a stout
boy like you?' was asked with a broad smile.

William felt half-ashamed of the confession, how he had been lost when
quite little, and had seen the stones make faces at him, adding the
current stories he had heard, and his fright that afternoon.

By this time they were descending a slope from the barren heath to the
Merthyr Tydvil highway, thus avoiding close proximity to the dreaded
circle, although the roadway passed on a lower level. As they went, the
stranger did his best to disabuse the boy's mind of his foolish terrors,
and gave him to understand that long before there were any Christian
churches in the land, or any Christian clergymen, the Druids were the
priests, the priests of Baal, and set up those stones for their temples.
Yet he said nothing of their horrid rites or human sacrifices, lest he
should confirm the boy's dread of the stones.

William listened with wide-open ears, putting in a question here and
there, as was his wont, and, to his delight, receiving intelligent
replies adapted to the capacity of a thinking child. He was very anxious
to know something more about the priests of Baal, but, after a brief
identification of them with the idolatrous worshippers of the sun, the
stranger, having ascertained that he could read, referred him to the
Bible for further information.

They had reached the well-trodden turning to the ford. The sun had by
this time set, and twilight was closing in.

'I presume our ways part here,' observed the tall stranger. 'Good-bye.
Do not forget what I have told you. Brave boys who fear God, and do
their duty to their fellows, do not dread the aspect of a few grey old
stones.'

'I'm not afraid of stones, sir. I've got a heap, and I build with them.
But Rhys kicks them over and says I waste my time.'

'So you build with stones, do you? And, pray, what do you build?' asked
the gentleman, with a comical smile, unseen in the twilight. 'Do you
think you could build a bridge over this treacherous river? You would do
good service if you could,' he added, _sotto voce_.

William felt abashed. He had an uncomfortable suspicion he was being
laughed at.

'I am only a boy, sir. I can only _try_ to build. But when I am a man,
Rhys shall see!'

'And who is Rhys?' put the other, resuming his walk when he found the
boy did not turn towards the cottage by the ford.

'Rhys is my big brother. But, if you please, sir, what do be a
_bridge?_'

Without evincing any surprise at the ignorance of a boy of his class
and age, who could not have travelled far from home, the other answered
promptly, 'A bridge is a roadway built _over_ a river so that people may
walk or ride across without wetting their feet. Bridges are sometimes
built of wood, sometimes of stone or brick. A bridge is sadly wanted
hereabouts, my boy. I narrowly escaped being swept away at the ford this
morning.'

William drew in his breath. 'Oh-h-h! Would a bridge have saved my father
from being drowned?'

'It would preserve any one who had occasion to cross.'

'Then I'll build one when I'm a man, 'deed I will,' came promptly.

The stranger, amused by William's earnestness, put some few questions,
in his turn, respecting his father's death, his name, and occupation,
ascertained whence arose his peculiar fancy for building, and suggested
that if the church had attracted him so much he should contrive to visit
the ruins of Caerphilly Castle, which he would find much more wonderful
as a building; adding that he would have to cross a drawbridge to get
into the castle.

'Why, mother and Rhys go to Caerphilly market every week. They never
told me of the wonderful castle, whatever! But I'll go myself,' cried
William, his imagination fired, and his indignation rising under the
supposition that he had been kept wilfully in the dark. It did not occur
to him that familiarity had taken the wonder out of the ancient pile for
his elders.

They had reached the foot of the steep ascent to the farm, which
William pointed out with some pride as his home, and there the
stranger--who said he was on his way to the vicarage--took leave of him,
saying that his name was Morris, and perhaps they might meet again some
day, for he was interested in stone, but it was ironstone and not for
building. However, before he went, he gave the boy a word or two of
advice.

'Remember,' said he, 'you have a character to build before you think of
building houses and churches, and a _boy_ may begin to build that.'

'How?' was asked, William's grey eyes opening wide.

'By fearing God, and doing his duty. But there are bad characters as
well as good ones, and every act of disobedience, of untruthfulness, of
indolence, goes to build up the evil in place of the good.'

He had left William something to ponder. That was a memorable
encounter.




CHAPTER XII.

CAERPHILLY CASTLE.


A country vicar in the last century bore little or no resemblance to a
clergyman of any status in this. He was a much more homely and
patriarchal character, especially among the Welsh mountains.

Whatever his learning or his eloquence, he did not hesitate to till his
own glebe-lands, or to perform offices from which the pastor of to-day
would shrink as derogatory to his cloth. As a rule, his stipend was
small, and necessity compelled him so to labour. He came, however,
nearer to his flock in consequence.

When Mrs. Edwards, the Sunday following William's escapade, besought the
Rev. John Smith to admonish her refractory son, who perversely and
sullenly refused obedience to his eldest brother, idling and playing
with stones when he should be at work on the farm, and wandering no one
knew whither when reproved, she was surprised to hear him say--

'Um, ah, yes, I wanted to have a word with that boy of yours. But which
am I to admonish, the eldest, who should set an example of brotherly
love and consideration, or the youngest, who resents what he regards as
petty persecution and overbearing assumption?'

''Deed, sir, Rhys has only set a good example to the rest. He do work
hard upon the farm all day, and teach them to read at night; and he do
have a right to expect them to look up to him, and do what he tells
them; for you see, sir, he do be grown quite a young man, and a good
farmer too, look you.'

'Um, ah, yes, yes. I see. I understand all about it, Mrs. Edwards,' was
the vicar's running comment; 'I'll admonish the offender,' the twinkle
in his genial blue eyes, as he turned to accost another parishioner,
puzzling her greatly.

However, as there was peace between the brothers for a considerable
time, the widow congratulated herself on bespeaking the good vicar's
interference.

She was not aware, for Rhys did not think proper to say, that, after
asking him confidentially if the gossip he had heard about himself and
William was true, and what were the rights of the case, the vicar, out
of his own mouth, had convicted him of a want of brotherly kindness and
forbearance, and had 'admonished' him to remember what a lazy lad _he_
had been prior to his father's death, and had asked how he would have
liked an elder brother to come hectoring over him in those days? In
short, he read Rhys an informal homily on arrogant assumption, and the
need to exercise a degree of lenity towards a brother so much younger,
who was in all probability no worse than he had been himself. It was
something like a pinprick to an inflated balloon.

Rhys did not hold his head quite so high as usual when he joined Cate
and her father at the churchyard stile; and was so quiet during the walk
homeward that Cate tossed her hat-crowned red head about in offended
pettishness, and Owen looked at him askance, wondering what the good
vicar had said to take all the brightness out of him.

William was no less reticent. But, child though he was, he lived in a
dream-world of his own, and had ceased to reveal his inner self on the
domestic hearth, scared by the loud laughter and mockery that greeted
his curious inquiries and precocious remarks.

In his silence, therefore, there was nothing to surprise his mother, who
had fallen in with the general opinion that he was sullen. She had seen
the vicar lead him aside, and took the reprimand for granted.

The opening words of his conversation with the nine years boy did not
seem much like a reprimand.

'So, William, I hear you are going to be a great builder? And Mr. Morris
tells me you want to know all about the Tower of Babel and Solomon's
Temple, the Druidical temples, and St. Helen's Church here, with bridges
and I do not know what beside. Now which of all these are we to talk
about first?'

He had unlocked the boy's heart as with a magic key. Here was some one
else who did not laugh at him. Their conversation lasted little over a
quarter of an hour, and William was frequently the catechist, but it
broke off like a serial story, 'to be continued.' And though it had been
chiefly about building and builders, the vicar had not let the boy go
away without a few words of gentle advice on his duty to himself and
others--a lesson referred back to the two tablets of stone delivered to
Moses amid the fiery terrors of Sinai.

After that there was generally a Sunday morning chat in the churchyard,
and on one occasion the vicar took the boy home with him to dinner, a
distinction that puzzled Mrs. Edwards exceedingly, and made Rhys no less
jealous.

The vicar, a small man surmounted by a big clerical wig, had simply
shown the boy a few architectural pictures in illustrated books, with a
brief description of his own, the letterpress being English, and the
boy's education stopping short at Welsh.

There was a water-colour drawing upon the parlour wall of a ruined
castle with a tower that had been rent from battlement to base, and
appeared in the act of falling. It was too remarkable to escape
William's observation. He eyed it intently for some minutes. At length
he asked, 'What place is that, sir?'

'That? Oh, that is Caerphilly Castle, the oldest fortress in Cambria. Do
you not know it?'

'No, but I mean to go there when the tailor comes to make me some proper
clothes. The packman let me have the cloth for the stockings I have
knitted, look you.'

'Um, ah. So you are in a hurry to discard the ancient Cymric kilt are
you?'

'They make one look so like a girl,' was William's shamefaced answer.

'Yet there are grown men both in Wales and in Scotland who still cling
to the kilt, and are proud of it. You will be for casting off the old
Saxon smock-frock next.'

''Deed no, sir. Men wear smock-frocks, women don't. Rhys wears one and
Evan too.'

But, ancient or modern, no sooner had William a chance of an exchange
for a short-tailed coat and a pair of knee-breeches than he felt he had
made a step towards manhood, much as Davy had done before him--Davy, who
went plodding along from day to day and from week to week, with scarcely
a thought that did not centre in the farm, and who never troubled
himself about 'whys' or 'wherefores.'

'William is not at church to-day. How is that?' remarked the vicar to
Mrs. Edwards on the Whitsunday, as he took his customary stroll among
his parishioners in all the importance of his wig and three-cornered
hat, noting each newly flower-decked grave as he went, and perhaps
making a kindly remark in passing.

''Deed, sir, I thought he would be here. He was dressed before any of
us. Ales said he was proud as a peony of his new clothes, and had gone
off first to show himself. He do be a strange boy.'

'Did Rhys say anything to him about them?'

'Yes, sure, he told him that now he was being dressed like a man he
hoped he would cease to be playing with stones like a baby.'

'Um, ah, yes, yes. I thought as much. You need not be alarmed if William
is not home until late. I can partly guess where he has gone. He is not
doing any harm, my good friend. He is in much less danger than Rhys, I
can assure you.'

Mrs. Edwards looked up in the vicar's expressive face, and following the
glance of his pleasantly twinkling eye, her own rested on her eldest
son, carefully handing Cate Griffith over the tall stile.

She knew nothing of electricity, but certainly something like an
electric shock passed through her, with its instantaneous enlightenment.
A moment she stood dazed, then turned to address the vicar, but he was
gone, and talking with a grey-haired old couple of a son who had been
lost at sea, who had no grave to be dressed with flowers that
Whitsuntide.

William was forgotten in the newer care. There was no mistaking the
attitude, the tender expression in the face of Rhys, or the coquettish
aspect of the ruddy maiden as she placed her plump brown hand in his.

'Sure,' said the widow to herself, 'Cate could get over a stile without
help. I've seen her climb a tree or get over a wall before now. _That's_
why Mrs. Griffith's been so ready to let Cate come to the farm to help
at harvest-time, or whenever we were pushed. I see it all now, and the
fear lest she should go home by herself after dark, as if the road did
not be straight enough. And him a boy, not twenty yet. What do the woman
be thinking of? Do she be thinking I would let Cate come on the farm as
Rhys' wife, when Ales and Evan get married? Oh, Rhys, Rhys, and me a
widow with three younger ones to rear, look you!'

Jonet and Davy, standing close beside her, during her brief colloquy
with the vicar, had no clue to the significance of his hint or his
glance; but they could read the trouble on their mother's puckering
brow, without suspicion of its cause.

'What be the matter, mother?' asked Jonet anxiously, sidling up to her
and slipping a small palm into the larger one. 'Do you be uneasy about
Willem?'

''Deed, Willem's all right. The vicar said so. You need not fret over
him,' said Davy placidly. 'He will be gone to show Robert Jones his new
clothes.'

'Yes, yes, sure, that will be it,' assented the widow, smoothing her
ruffled countenance with an effort, unwilling to share her discovery
with either Davy or Jonet, although the former was by this time quite as
old as Rhys had been when he felt himself entitled to assume a general
protectorate of the family.

Taking Jonet by the hand, she made her way across the churchyard more
hastily than usual, barely nodding in recognition of an acquaintance who
advanced a step or so in expectation of a chat. Her desire was to keep
Rhys and Cate in sight, and so confirm or dispel her newly-aroused
suspicions.

But there were others before her at the stile, a father and mother, with
three or four young children, to be helped up the steps on one side and
down the other, and by the time her turn came, Rhys and the Griffiths
were well in advance, and lost to sight by a bend in the road.

Davy was always inclined to saunter along, and Jonet, however brisk at
starting, began to drag heavily after the first mile on the return,
encumbered by her Sunday shoes.

For all that neither William nor Rhys were at home when they got there,
and the rare Sunday's dinner of boiled meat and potatoes was on the
table, with buttermilk to wash it down, before the latter came hurrying
in, his cheeks aglow.

The uneasy look on Mrs. Edwards' face had not been set aside with her
hat and cloak--worn in all seasons on account of uncertain skies--nor
had she found it as easy to conceal her displeasure with a smile, as it
was to cover her best linsey-woolsey skirt with a fair linen apron.

'Has not Willem come in?' asked Rhys, glancing round the kitchen.

'No!' said his mother curtly, 'and _you_ have not been hurrying
yourself.'

'Owen Griffith kept me talking about the success of his new crop of
potatoes. He says that his brothers, and Roberts, and Lloyd are all for
trying them next year.'

'Potatoes, indeed!' his mother jerked out, and he looked up at her. But
he set her evident ill-humour down to the absence of William, as did
both Evan and Ales.

And where was William rambling that bright Whitsunday morning, when he
should have been helping his mother to dress his father's grave with
flowers?

Had he gone, as suggested, to parade his manly suit before his friend
Robert Jones?

Not he; that would hardly have accounted for his absence from church,
since the turf-cutter's cottage was on the direct road-side.

No. When the vicar was giving out his text, William Edwards was studying
a 'sermon in stones,' his text being Caerphilly Castle, and he standing
in blank awe and amazement beneath the barbican towers of the only
drawbridge time has spared out of the original thirteen, much as he had
stood in infancy overpowered by the comparative vastness of Eglwysilan's
church when he was first brought face to face with it.

And now it was but a dumpy boy of nine who stood transfixed by that
approach to a stronghold, 'of which the very ruins are stupendous,' a
boy unread in history, who knew nothing of the Romans, or of Beli Gwar,
or of Robert Fitzhamon, or of any of the conjectural first-founders, or
of Edward the First who added so largely to its strength and size. He
could see that it stood encircled by water in a wide plain surrounded by
dark and barren mountains, but had any one informed him that it occupied
an area equal to Windsor Castle he would have been no wiser, never
having seen a castle before, or heard of any Windsor except the lord of
the soil around his home.

With mountains he was familiar. Their grandeur did not oppress him. They
were the work of the infinite God who made the whole world, who set the
sun and the moon and stars high in the heavens to give us light. The
creation of the universe by the Almighty hand was no new idea in the
boy's mind. But that men, only _men_, should have put that vast pile
together, its towers, its massive walls that had outlasted hundreds of
years, was suggestive of possibilities and capabilities that took his
breath away.

He stood there long, not so much because he was tired with his
five-miles' rough walk that hot morning, but to overcome his first
sensations of awe. Then he passed between the two great towers, and
traversed courts and alleys, citadel, hall, chapel, whatever the
pillared areas, the vast walls and arched windows, may suggest to
antiquaries. To the boy they suggested only a marvellous enigma it was
his fixed determination to solve _some_ day.

In his explorations he had to scramble over the fragmentary ruins of a
second drawbridge between flanking towers, over which the friendly ivy
had thrown an evergreen mantle. Here he stood gazing astonished at the
mass of solid masonry which had walled the castle in, and at a great
arched gateway under which he passed. He groped his way down to an
underground chamber where had been a smelting furnace and a mint; and
from that wonder of wonders, a staircase to the turret-top.

But nothing held him so spellbound as the leaning tower, which, with
chambers and passages complete, and outer walls full ten feet thick,
overhung its base nearly four yards, a threatening mass that so had hung
in mid air since the convulsion that had rent the tower in twain
centuries before, yet held aloft as surely as the tower of Bologna or of
Pisa.

Nothing knew William of these, or of battles or sieges, or of the force
of water let in on molten metal; but he could wonder how the stones held
together, and he could argue with himself that what had been done might
be done.

Aladdin's enchanted garden of precious stones was nothing to what
Caerphilly Castle was to the boy William Edwards.




CHAPTER XIII.

MAN PROPOSES.


Although, being warned by previous experience, William had stuffed his
new pockets with bread before leaving home in the morning, he found that
was a sorry substitute for a hearty dinner, and when he limped home in
the waning light of the long summer evening, supper at the farm was over
and cleared away. It was a doleful prospect, for there was an aching
void in his interior that all the wonders of Caerphilly Castle had not
served to fill.

He had left home jauntily enough in the morning, but give any lad of his
years a ten-miles' walk on a hot summer day, on a rough road up hill and
down dale, and add a couple more miles of scrambling over ruins, and I
venture to say all the jauntiness would be taken out of him. He would
look as dusty and limp and jaded as did William Edwards, and his secret
enthusiasm would not prevent a wistful look at the table, bare of all
save crumbs and milky rings where mugs had been.

Rhys had stood propping up the door-post as he ascended the stony lane,
and entered the enclosure in front of the house by the stile.

'What do you mean by coming home at this time of night?' he cried
sharply, catching his brother by the shoulder. 'Where have you been all
day, you vagabond, wearing the shoes off your feet?'

'I've not been after Cate Griffith,' was flung back in retort, and, as
if a stone had struck him, the grip of Rhys on the shoulder relaxed, to
let the 'vagabond' pass in.

The empty table was not more expressive to him than was the averted
countenance of his mother, who sat on the high-backed settle, her brow
clouded, her unseeing eyes steadfastly gazing at the low hearth where
the embers were smouldering into white ashes. Probably she did not see
him as he dropped wearily down on a three-legged stool opposite.

Davy sat at the table, half asleep, his face hidden on his folded arms.
Evan was busy in the farmyard. He could hear his wooden shoes clattering
over the stones. Ales was going in and out.

Jonet, who had been watching for William's return, with her light-brown
head and half her body stretched out of the bedroom window, came
noiselessly across the wide kitchen. Her arm stole lovingly around his
neck. 'You are tired, Willem; do you be hungry?'

He gave her hand a squeeze and nodded. Her bare feet were off towards
the dairy.

There was a whispering in the passage. In a few minutes Ales brought in
a mug of buttermilk and a great hunch of brown bread.

'Here,' she cried, 'eat that; though you don't deserve it, going off no
one knows where.'

He thanked her for the unhoped-for supper, but he did not tell her where
he had been, though he knew she had an old mother living somewhere in
Caerphilly. Whereabouts he did not know, and, having no news of the poor
rheumatic old woman, he munched his bread in silence.

His mother never raised her head. If she saw him she made no sign. Rhys
had been away all the afternoon. That lay heavier on her heart than any
wanderings of William, though _he_ thought otherwise. There was no
red-headed Cate lying in wait for her youngest born--no one seeking to
steal his heart away from her. She was hesitating whether to take Rhys
to task, or, as Ales suggested, to 'wait and let the waters pass.'

But Jane Edwards had not a passive nature. She was more inclined to be
up and doing than to wait. 'Yes,' she communed with herself, 'the waters
may pass, but they may carry my Rhys with them. I want no Cate ordering
about here; the artful jade!'

As if the very thought had been a stimulus, she rose abruptly, and,
passing out into the moonlight, joined her son, who was bending over the
low stone wall, looking intently down the rugged slope.

'What are you looking for, Rhys?'

He gave a sudden start as she went on, 'Do you be watching the moonlight
on the river, and thinking how different was the night that took your
father from us?'

She put her arm within his as she spoke, and laid her head, in its white
linen cap, against his shoulder.

'Ah, Rhys, that was a terrible time, a terrible time. But, thanks be to
God, we won through it. And it made a man of you, my dear boy. Well do I
remember how you came to comfort me, and promised always to be a good
son, and do your duty by me, and by the children, and by the farm, in
the sight of God. And you have always done it, Rhys, _fach_, always--
And--and--it would be breaking my heart, Rhys, if--if--you should be
caring more for some one else than for your promise--or for your
mother--and--and for Jonet--and the others.' And there she paused, but
he made no response, and she continued.

The latter half of the sentence was sobbed rather than spoken, and Rhys,
who had a tender heart, notwithstanding his contempt for William's
day-dreams, was deeply moved by her emotion.

For the moment, Cate and his own day-dreams were lost sight of.

'Mother, dear,' said he, not perhaps so truthfully as might have been,
though he felt at the time that all he said _was_ true. 'Mother, no one
can ever come between us, or make me forget my old promise. What makes
you be thinking so to-night? Have I not done my duty so far?' And now
his strong arm went round her with more than the old protectorate.

'Yes, yes, indeed, Rhys, you have always been a good son; but--but--you
have been something different of late--and--I thought, perhaps, Elain
Lloyd--or--or--Cate Griffith might have been looking out for you, and
for stealing your heart away from us all, look you.'

He began a fresh disclaimer at the mention of Elain Lloyd, but stopped
short, and she could feel him wince and hold his breath when the name of
Cate Griffith followed.

The denial died upon his lips. There was a pause. Early or precipitate
marriages are not common in Wales. The consent of parents must first be
obtained, and he had not yet spoken of marriage to Cate, but he knew the
anticipation lurked in both their hearts, and there was a momentary
struggle between two loves--two duties.

His mother's emotion had moved him as no angry words could have done,
and so moved him that at the moment he would have given up Cate or any
one to console her.

'Yes, yes, mother, _fach_; Cate is a nice girl--and we are very good
friends, the best of friends; but you need not be afraid; I am not going
to bring her, or any one else whatever, to disturb you, indeed no.'

If there was a mental reservation, 'at least not just yet,' the words
were unspoken.

And so, with a kiss of peace between mother and son, the disturbing
spirit was laid at rest.

At rest--that was, on the surface--and for the time being.

True to his promise, and with an unappreciated effort, Rhys confined his
attentions to Cate to the walk home from church, and was apparently less
desirous to loiter with her in the rear of her parents. With commendable
self-repression--seeing that his own inclination ran counter to his
filial bond--he found occupation on the farm when otherwise he might
have had an errand that should take him across the shallow brook and
past the weaver's cottage. Or, if he had really business that way, he
showed less disposition to linger at open door or window.

Cate resented this with pettishness, and the transference of her winning
smiles to Robert, the young brother of Elain Lloyd, until the coolness
became coldness mingled with pique, and the two passed each other at
church or on the road with affected indifference.

Had there been an absolute quarrel, it might have spent itself in
reproaches, or been made up when the storm-cloud had passed, but this
unexplained reserve went on for months and months, and the breach
continued open.

Mrs. Edwards ought to have been satisfied with the result of her
interference, and for a time she was. But somehow the temper of Rhys had
not improved. His assertion of mastership became more pronounced. He and
William came into frequent collision as the weeks and months rounded
into years, and the harmony of the household was disturbed. Jonet
appealed to her mother against his dictatorship, and even Davy roused
from his passivity and objected 'to be ordered about like a hired
labourer.'

There was no denying that Brookside Farm had materially improved under
the new system of cropping and manuring Evan Evans had introduced, or
that half the farmers in the parish had begun to plant potatoes since
the root had proved so profitable there. Then there was land under
cultivation that had formerly lain waste, and Mrs. Edwards was no longer
in dread of the rent-day, or of Mr. Pryse, let him scowl as he would.

She was always ready to give Evan the credit, and to pay him well for
his services. But her eldest son, having profited by the man's
instructions through a succession of years, began to think himself wiser
than his teacher, and either argued against or disapproved most of his
suggestions, whether for the cultivation of the land or the treatment of
the stock. Rhys had been a mere boy when Evan came upon the farm, and
the others quite children. It was scarcely likely that he who had seen
them grow up was to submit to the young fellow's rule as if their ages
were reversed.

Night after night, when Evan and Ales sat up together courting after the
rest were in bed, as was the old custom, he would talk over some fresh
slight or indignity received from Rhys, and declare his intention to
quit the farm and get married at the next yearly hirings.

''Deed, and it is not that I would like to be doing Mrs. Edwards an ill
turn, in taking you away before Jonet is old enough to supply your
place, in some sort, Ales, _fach_, or in going and leaving Rhys to do as
he likes; but I am too old to be ordered about and taught my business by
him, whatever. His good mother did never be doing it--and it's time we
was be thinking of that little cottage at Castella, with the nice bit of
land that would serve for a pig and a cow. We would soon be wanting
another field and another cow, Ales, and we could have your mother over
from Caerphilly to live with us--yes, indeed.'

'Yes, indeed, Evan; but I do be thinking Jonet do not be strong or tall
enough to lift the dasher of the big churn, and it would come hard on
Mrs. Edwards if she did be having to make the butter come. We do better
be waiting a bit longer, or there's Rhys would be bringing Cate Griffith
here to plague his mother's heart; yes, sure.'

And so from time to time it was proposed, and from time to time put off,
Evan growing more and more dissatisfied at being thrust into the
background, until, at length, when nearly three more years had spun
their uneven thread, Ales consented to quit Brookside for the cottage at
Castella, and Mrs. Edwards, weary of adjusting differences, endeavoured
to persuade herself that now her sons and her daughter were growing up
around her, they should be able to manage well without them, and,
indeed, save something in food and wages.

At the first announcement of their decision, Rhys brisked up
wonderfully. He shook Evan by the hand as if there had never been a
difference between them, and congratulated him on his sensible choice,
and on his prospect of happiness, with quite friendly interest.

William was the only one at all depressed by the proposed changes. Evan
and Ales had frequently stood between him and overbearing Rhys; he had
become attached to them, and felt he should lose two good friends when
they married and went away. So there was a note of regret in his
congratulations.

The thatched cottage at Castella was taken, duly whitewashed within and
without, and the earthen floor relaid and left to harden. But Evan had
promised Ales that she should have glass windows, and for these, and for
his farming implements, he would have to make a journey to Cardiff. He
had engaged a local carpenter to make a bed, a wooden settle, a table,
and platter shelves. Ales herself had a pretty fair collection of useful
articles in the shape of pots, bowls, and mugs, stowed away in the barn,
having added to her store whenever the packman came his rounds. And she
had, besides, a goodly pair of thick blankets, of which she was not a
little proud, having spun the wool in spare hours when her other work
was done, to say nothing of flannel and linsey-woolsey for wedding
garments--under-linen was then and there of no account. Mrs. Edwards had
promised Ales a new felt hat and a shawl for the auspicious occasion,
and they bade fair to make a good start according to the ideas then
prevailing. It would be thought little of nowadays, when art has found
its way into the humblest abodes. But what had never been known or heard
of could not be missed, and the absolute wants of nature are really very
few.

As their yearly servitude happened to terminate alike at Martinmas, Mrs.
Edwards kindly proposed their continuance on the farm whilst Ales
completed some needful preparations, and Evan made his important journey
to Cardiff. The wedding was to take place soon after his return, for the
Rev. John Smith had been notified, and read out the banns, for the first
time, on the last Sunday in September, the faithful pair looking down
and blushing crimson as the eyes of the whole congregation turned
towards them.

They left the church together, feeling half-married, nothing doubting
that the ceremony would be completed three weeks later.

But they had calculated without Mr. Pryse.




CHAPTER XIV.

WHERE IS EVAN?


The difference between a full-face portrait and a profile is not so
great as the different aspect the same individual may present to
different people. To his noble employer, Mr. Pryse was the very
beau-ideal of a shrewd business man,--clear-headed, active, and
indefatigable in his interests and that of the large estate under his
control,--a man on whom he could rely, for dealing conscientiously alike
with himself and his tenants, in his absence.

Those tenants saw only a hard, grasping, unscrupulous agent, who
extorted high rents, made no allowance for bad seasons or failing crops,
and who stifled complaints with an extra turn of the screw. They knew
that all repairs and improvements, made at their own cost, would be
wrested to the advantage of the noble landowner in the long-run, and
were disheartened. There was an unwhisperable suspicion afloat that
these said repairs went down as deductions from rents in the accounts
submitted to his lord; but who ever had a chance of overhauling those
accounts, or questioning crafty Mr. Pryse's unimpeachable integrity?

And about the time when William Edwards first found his way to
Caerphilly Castle, which was in the year after George II. ascended the
throne, the first faint breaths of a graver suspicion were wafted
northwards, from Cardiff, in unaccountable and mysterious undertones.

Cardiff, now a flourishing and busy seaport, was then, in spite of its
great castle, but a small, mean, and unimportant town, hardly to be
called a port, its ancient prestige having fallen away like its gates
and walls.

But about this period Mr. Pryse ceased to collect his lord's rents
regularly at Caerphilly, and required that they should be brought to his
office in Cardiff. This was a woful grievance to the bulk of the
tenants, especially to elderly or infirm persons, or others remote from
the county town. Had his lordship been at the Castle, no doubt his irate
tenants would have sought his presence in a body, and made common cause
against the common oppressor; but no such opportunity occurred.

Neighbours who dreaded the toil of a nineteen or twenty miles' journey
along bad roads in bad weather, with Mr. Pryse at the end, and as
wearisome a return, would meet and agree to trust the bravest of the
party with the separate rents of two or three, having no fear of robbery
by the way, whilst so many other travellers would be fallen in with, all
bent on the same errand.

Some of these adventurous wights, who had never been so far as Cardiff
in their lives before, brought back the news, either gathered on the
spot or on the road, that a strange craft had begun to frequent the
river, and to anchor off the old sea-wall. It was said that the vessel
had been a privateer during the wars of the previous reign, and that
although she came thither ostensibly for coal from his lordship's
collieries, and Mr. Pryse was in close communication with the captain,
there was something rather mysterious about her cargo.

[Illustration: THERE WAS SOMETHING RATHER MYSTERIOUS ABOUT HER CARGO.
--_See page 164._]

It was darkly hinted that the barrels which came pannier-wise on long
strings of horses from the Caerphilly colliery laden with coal, and were
hauled on board to be emptied, were not returned empty, but, when again
slung across the backs of the patient beasts waiting on the old quay,
seemed no lighter than before; and knowing ones surmised, from the care
with which they were handled, that smaller kegs were slipped inside the
open coal barrels. At all events, it was whispered that the teamsters
lingered long at roadside inns, and that some of them struck into
by-ways instead of making direct for the colliery with their empties.
And it was certain that foreign spirits could be procured by the
initiated where only _cwrw da_ or cider had been hitherto obtainable.

This had been going on for three years when Evan, the
bridegroom-expectant, prepared for his journey to Cardiff, whence he
proposed to bring Ales her golden wedding-ring, as well as a number of
small articles--not included in the 'furnishing list' of cumbrous
goods--to be ferried across the river for after-conveyance to his new
cottage.

To Mrs. Edwards the enforced journey to Cardiff for the payment of rent
had been a trouble and a grievance. She had not cared to send hot-headed
Rhys by himself into a town which she pictured as full of temptations
for young men, neither had she cared to go thither alone. Twice had she
taken her son with her; once she had made the toilsome journey in
company with Owen Griffith; at other times she had entrusted him with
the rent-money. But now that Evan was bent thither on business of his
own, her natural thrift suggested the employment of him as her deputy,
so as to save the toil of the journey, and innkeeper's charges for
herself and her beast.

Owen Griffith, too, was glad of a trustworthy substitute; so that when
Evan kissed Ales, and shook hands with the rest as he bestrode good old
Breint at the farmhouse gate, he carried a goodly sum under his new
frieze riding-coat, in one pocket or other, nearly all the savings of
Ales, in addition to his own, and the two rents.

His departure was quite an event. Owen Griffith and Cate had walked up
the hill to hand him the money and see him off, though the hour was
early, and a drizzling rain had begun to fall. But rain was no new thing
among the mountains, and nobody cared for that, though, doubtless, they
would have preferred fair weather as more auspicious.

However, Ales flung an old shoe after him, and called out--

'For luck, Evan!'

He looked back over his shoulder to nod his thanks in reply; whereupon
she threw her apron over her head and ran into the house ready to cry
because he had 'spoiled his luck' by looking back.

Mrs. Edwards, too, would have been better pleased had he gone on with
face set forward, but she cried, 'God keep him, and bring him safe
back!' as if to counteract the untoward prognostic. Yet a cloud was
gathering on her own brow, for though Owen Griffith walked beside the
horse down the stony incline, Cate remained leaning against the stone
gate-post talking earnestly with Rhys, the flush on her countenance
deepening as he bent his head and lowered his voice to meet her ear
only.

'The bold-faced huzzie!' the mother ejaculated to herself, as she turned
to go indoors. 'Can she not let Ales get out of the house before she be
coming a-seeking Rhys to worm herself in! Sure, and she do be in a
mighty hurry to make up the old quarrel, and secure Rhys, and Owen do be
as bad as his girl. But Ales is not gone yet!' she jerked out
half-aloud, then checked herself, wondering what could have put those
ill-timed words into her head.

She was mistaken. Cate Griffith was not quite so bold as she imagined.
The quarrel had been made up some weeks, and, what was more, made up by
Rhys, with a plain-spoken offer to make her his wife when Ales was
married and gone away.

What he had been saying, as Evan rode away down hill, was singularly
enough, 'We shall not have long to wait now, Cate, darling. Ales will
soon be gone, and mother will be missing her so much she will be glad to
see me bring so clever and smart a wife home to fill the vacant place.
Jonet could not do it. No, really! We shall not have long to be waiting,
Cate, _fach_.'


     'The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
                        Gang aft agley.'


Centuries before Burns crystallised the sentiment into verse its
profound truth had been established. Who, besides Noah and his family,
calculated on the Deluge?

Were the tears Ales shed, when her long-loved Evan turned his head,
premonitory of another deluge?

She was a strong, healthy young woman, not a puling sentimentalist
afflicted with 'nerves.' She might well cover her face, ashamed of her
starting tears, when he would be back with her in four days--or five, at
the furthest!

Yet she was unaccountably restless those days. The outdoor work of the
farm went on pretty much as usual, though the weather was unsettled.
Rhys and Davy were thrashing and winnowing in the barn, and William,
endeavouring to do the work of two, fed and foddered the cattle, and
took the place of Ales at the churn, whilst she washed and ironed, and
put little finishing touches to her simple wedding finery, sighing,
every now and again, for the Evan she missed every hour of the day. When
candles were lit, and at meal-times, the blank caused by the absence of
his smiling face and good-humoured observation, was felt by all, from
Mrs. Edwards down to William.

And somehow, as the days went by, Jane Edwards began to share the
fidgetiness of Ales, and, when the fourth passed, and the fifth wore
slowly away, could not help frequent ejaculations, such as, 'It's time
Evan was here!' 'What do be keeping Evan so long?' 'Sure to goodness
nothing's gone wrong!' Ales growing still and white, with a strange fear
that began to creep about her heart.

Evan had gone away on the Monday morning. Ere nightfall on Friday,
William slipped out and hurried to the ford, as if to meet him, passing
Owen Griffith at the foot of the hill, on his way to the farm to express
his own surprise at the messenger's delay.

William waited and waited, but there was no sign of Evan. He got back to
hear Griffith questioning Ales as to the various business her sweetheart
had on hand, the conclusion being that he had not been able to make all
his purchases, or get them conveyed to Castella, as readily as he had
calculated, and that he must be allowed another day.

But Saturday came and went without a sign of the traveller, and Ales
seemed to feel the alarm of all in her own aching heart.

Neither Evan nor Ales was at church on the Sunday to hear the banns read
the second time.

But people were there to testify that Evan Evans had reached Cardiff in
safety, and had been seen to enter the office of Mr. Pryse.

On that, Owen Griffith and Mrs. Edwards breathed more freely. Their
fears that he had been waylaid and robbed were set at rest. It was clear
his own affairs had alone detained him.

William, on his own inspiriting, had betaken himself to Caerphilly, and
brought Ales back the comforting news that her Evan had carried the
basket of butter and cheese to her old mother, and arranged for her
removal to Castella with them.

So far all was right. But when another week went by, and no Evan came to
claim her, or to bring the rent receipts, the heart of Ales sank lower
and lower; every whisper in the house was suggestive of doubt, and
pierced her bosom like a stab.

Owen Griffith was there nightly making fresh inquiries, often bringing
Cate along with him, when Ales' heart was wrung with undertoned
suspicions of her true love's fidelity--not to say his honesty.

At the three weeks' end, when the poor tortured girl had resolved on
walking all the way to Cardiff, to set doubt at rest, the climax came.

It came like a thunderbolt, in the person of Mr. Pryse, to make an
authoritative demand for the half-year's rent, then overdue.

It was in vain Mrs. Edwards declared it had been paid; that she had sent
the money by Evan Evans.

'In that case you will have the receipt. Produce it,' said he, with a
sneer.

'I cannot,' replied she, in much perplexity. 'Evan has not yet returned.
But he was seen to enter your office; yes, indeed!'

'Oh yes, he did come to my office to pay your neighbour Owen Griffith's
rent, and to beg a fortnight's grace for you. I have been good enough to
give you three weeks, and now I _must_ have the rent--one way or other.'

The evil smile of triumph on his wicked old face, as he said this, was
lost on Mrs. Edwards in her consternation.

'Beg _what_? I did want no fortnight's grace. I did send the golden
guineas!'

Mr. Pryse's thin lip curled. 'Then your man kept them. And it is rather
strange he should pay Griffith's rent if he meant to make off with
yours. There must be lying and dishonesty somewhere.'

'Yes, indeed,' broke from Ales, in a passion of indignant wrath. 'But
not from my mistress or Evan Evans; they do both be God-fearing and
true.'

An ominous scowl drew down the brows under the English three-cornered
hat.

'Silence, you impudent jade, or I'll have you cast into jail for your
vile insinuations. Wait until your _honest_ Evan comes back before you
venture to asperse his lordship's deputy.' And he raised his
riding-whip as if to strike her.

Rhys had come upon the scene in the midst of this altercation, brought
thither by a word from Lewis, who had seen the agent ride up the hill,
with a sinister smile upon his face, and a ruffianly fellow in his rear.

At once the hot-blooded young farmer, in a smock-frock showing many an
earthy stain, interposed between his mother's faithful domestic and the
steward, unawed by the gold lace or ruffles visible under the open
riding-coat.

'Nay, nay, we don't take whips to women in Eglwysilan, Mr. Pryse. What
is all this uproar about? And what do be your business here, sir?'

His mother attempted an explanation. Ales had shrunk back overawed.

'I have come for the unpaid rent, and the costs attending this
application,' Mr. Pryse thrust in, heedless of Rhys' disclaimer that
'nothing was owing'; 'and, as no cash appears to be forthcoming, I take
possession of the farm in the name of his lordship, and leave this man
in charge of the premises, and I warn you against removing stock or
stone. Take the inventory, Morgan'--to the man who had edged himself
into the kitchen, and now put on a truculent air.

William had come rushing in from the potato-field, but he stopped short,
as much paralysed as his elders.

His mother was the first to break the spell.

'Paid or unpaid,' she cried, with the dignity of truth and honesty,
'that wretch shall take no inventory here, whatever. I do not be without
the means to pay your demand, though I protest that it is unjust, and
will have to be returned to me when Evan returns with the receipt, look
you.'

'Ah, _when he does_. But you may take my word for it, the bird has flown
away with your golden feathers, and is far enough from Wales by this
time.'

And again the sinister smile lighted the evil face, much as if he had
good reason for knowing that Evan was far away, and that his word might
therefore _be_ taken.

'I am glad to see you are so well provided,' he added, as the widow
proceeded to count out upon the table the sum demanded, leaving still a
nest-egg in the grey stocking-foot. 'Your farm must be flourishing, and
I herewith give you notice, in the presence of my man, Morgan, that your
rent will be advanced ten pounds per annum after this date.--I will send
you a receipt.'

[Illustration: 'YOUR RENT WILL BE ADVANCED TEN POUNDS PER ANNUM AFTER
THIS DATE,' HE SAID.--_See page 174._]

'No, sir,' put in Rhys promptly, 'you will give my mother one now. I see
your follower there has an inkhorn and paper.'

Mr. Pryse bit his under lip, but thought well to take the hint.

'And now, sir,' said Rhys, when he had assured himself the receipt was
correct, 'you do be threatening to raise the rent. You cannot do that
until the lease expires.'

'Show me your lease,' demanded the agent loftily.

'We can do that when necessary, sir. His lordship will be having a copy
you can consult,' replied Rhys quite as loftily.

And, seeing that he had a full-grown man to deal with, not a woman he
could intimidate, Mr. Pryse turned on his heel, and mounted his horse,
muttering something surly as he went, his disappointed functionary
following at his heels.

Once again he bit his nails as his horse carried him down the stony
track, for even the coin he bore away did not cover his baffled rage at
defeat. Presently his thin lips spread into a smile of
self-congratulation, and his eyelids nearly met as he communed with
himself.

'It was lucky I did not call on Griffith for _his_ rent first. I
clinched the nail on Evan's dishonest flight in acknowledging _that_. A
clever idea of mine his begging grace for Edwards' widow. Covers his
call at my office. I suppose that forward jade is the woman he was going
to marry. She will wait a long while for a husband if she waits for Evan
Evans, look you. And as for that cock-crowing Rhys, I'll cut his comb
before I've done with him. He shall not crow over me with impunity; no,
indeed. I've bled the old woman pretty freely this time. She'll not get
over it in a hurry. The farm will go to the dogs now that long-headed
farming-man is gone. Lease, indeed! I defy any power in earth or heaven
to keep them on their farm when I am ready to turn them out. Yes,
indeed!'

A strong defiance _that_, Mr. Pryse, crafty and potential though you may
be!




CHAPTER XV.

A STOP-GAP.


As soon as Mr. Pryse was gone, Mrs. Edwards sank down on the oaken
settle exhausted with the conflict of disturbing thoughts, and the
harassing scene in which she had just borne a part. The old
stocking-foot, which had been her only possible savings bank all the
years of her thrifty widowhood, lay, with her limp hand, in her lap, in
a corresponding state of collapse. Only three weeks before it had been
plump and pleasant to contemplate, a testimony to industry, and a pledge
of future prosperity. Now, within those three short weeks, the full
half-year's rent had been a second time withdrawn, with exorbitant costs
in addition, and the residue had ample space to chink.

There was a troubled aspect of careworn bewilderment on her countenance
as she sat there, gazing abstractedly on her diminished store,
endeavouring to reconcile the irreconcilable. And all the while Rhys was
pacing the kitchen floor, with noisy tramp, in his wood-soled shoes,
chafing and fuming over the cruel insolence of Mr. Pryse, as well as
over their loss, yet wondering vaguely if there could be any truth in
his allegations.

He did not altogether trust Mr. Pryse, but he had never had his mother's
unbounded confidence in Evan, and, as Owen Griffith had suggested, so
much money in his hands all at once might have proved too great a
temptation, or he might have got drunk and lost it, and been ashamed to
return. (But Evan did not drink.)

Now and then a sharp, jerky expletive gave expression to his crude
doubts and suspicions, but he could not wring from his mother any word
to strengthen his suspicions.

'I do not be knowing what to think, Rhys!'--''Deed, Rhys, Evan has
served us well, and Mr. Pryse is a bad man, your father said it.'--'Yes,
indeed, it is a serious loss, but Evan helped us to get the
money.'--'Yes, yes, Rhys, I do be aware you have worked hard too; but
Evan, he did teach us new ways--and--after all,' she concluded, rising
slowly to replace the depleted stocking in the coffer, 'we may thank God
we had the money saved, or our farm would have gone from us, and we
should have lost everything. Think of poor Ales, and don't be letting
her hear you.'

Poor Ales! William had found her in the dairy, bent down over the tall
churn, with her head on her bare brown arms, sobbing as if her heart
would break, less for herself than the aspersion cast on her true and
faithful Evan. She had shrunk away, not from Mr. Pryse's whip, but from
an evil tongue and a threat that cut worse than a whip-lash.

Prisons were horrible dens before John Howard spent his life in
dragging their iniquities to light, and purifying their foulness. 'Jail'
was a word to daunt the strongest, for everywhere tales were rife how
unscrupulous power thrust innocent men within their pestilential walls
to perish, for no crime greater than debt or unguarded words.

William comforted in vain.

'Jail, Willem! He said he would send me to _jail_, only for standing up
for honest people. But he is a rogue, Willem--a bad, wicked rogue,
Willem.' She sobbed and shuddered as she gasped out the words. 'Yes,
'deed! it will be that cruel Mr. Pryse that do be robbing the widow of
her money--and--and my poor Evan of his good name. Yes, sure, and me of
my dear husband that would have been this day! Oh, Willem _fach_, my
poor heart will be breaking.'

'Hush, Ales dear! don't say so,' implored the sympathetic boy, laying
his hand tenderly upon her shoulder. 'Unkind words are hard to bear, I
know'--and he sighed--'but nobody here will think Evan took our money
and yours, and ran away from _you_.' (He might have altered his opinion
could he have heard through the stone wall what Rhys was saying.) 'Cheer
up; it will all come right when Evan gets back; yes, sure.'

Ales startled William with the quick, energetic way she flung up her
head and spoke--

'Come back? He will not come back unless I can seek out what that wicked
wretch has done with him. Would he be so sure of it, or dare to come
here to rob your mother--yes, to rob her--if he did not know what he had
done to keep my Evan from me? He may have put _him_ in jail to rot
there. Oh!' (and she wrung her hands, brown and hard with honest
toil)--'oh! or he may have had him _murdered_. He is bad enough for
that!'

'Hush, hush, Ales! Mr. Pryse would hardly do that; though he _is_ a bad
man, and looked, oh, so wickedly pleased when he knocked down the Tower
of Babel I was building. I'm afraid, Ales dear, he would not stick at
much,' William added, after a moment's cogitation.

'Name o' goodness, boy! He would stick at nothing whatever!' she cried,
rising to her feet, and taking her cloak from a peg in the storeroom
outside the dairy. 'But I am off to Cardiff to find Evan, or search out
the truth; and do you pray for me, Willem, that I may succeed, and that
no harm may come to me before I do.'

'Stay, stay, Ales,' exclaimed William, catching at her cloak in the
doorway; 'you cannot go all that way on foot, and alone, or at this time
o' day.'

Her voice was strangely quiet and determined as she answered--

'The sun has not set. I shall reach Caerphilly before night, and can
stay and rest with mother until morning.'

''Deed, now, you had best be staying where you are till morning, and you
shall have a horse to ride on. And if there is no one else to go with
you, I will go myself, sure.'

After some persuasion, Ales consented to the first proposition,
absolutely declining to accept his proffered escort, saying, 'Now Evan
be gone you cannot be spared. And, now the money be gone, you must give
up playing with stones, and work well to keep the farm from the sly old
fox. Ah, sure, and the fox might be glad to catch the young goose near
his hole. No, no, Willem, _you_ must not run into danger. There be no
need to break your mother's heart as well as mine. If God speed my
errand I shall not be alone. Better God's arm than man's army.'

As her cloak went back to the peg, William slipped out through the
farmyard, and was off down hill as fast as his legs would carry him.
Davy and Jonet, returning from the potato-field where they had been
industriously at work, undisturbed and unaware of the overwhelming
trouble nearer home, called out to know where he was going; but if he
heard he did not answer.

Supper--the old frugal meal of stiff leek porridge and milk--was on the
table cooling when he returned out of breath, and whispered to Ales, as
she carried out the porridge-pot, that their mutual friend, Robert
Jones, had business of his own in Cardiff, and if she would join him at
seven in the morning, where the roads met, she could ride all the way on
one of his team. He did not tell her all he had said to enlist his old
friend in her service, or how heartily the turf-cutter had responded,
or that the man's errand was chiefly on her account.

Robert Jones knew more of 'old Pryse' than she did, and hated him as
sincerely.

There had been some previous talk between Ales and her old mistress
about the young woman's continuation on the farm unless Evan returned to
claim her.

'I'd rather serve you for nothing than go away before Evan's good name
was cleared, 'deed I would. And it will be cleared some day, I know it
will, whatever some folk may think.'

She had said this with a full heart, meaning all she proposed, but Mrs.
Edwards was too just to accept service on such terms from a tried and
faithful maid in her hour of deep affliction. Besides, she had a feeling
that whilst Ales was there, well-trained and active, Rhys would have
less excuse to bring Cate on to the hearth. Motives are always more or
less complex.

The objections of Mrs. Edwards to Cate Griffith certainly were so. She
would have conceded that 'the girl was good-looking, quick of foot, and
ready of hand,' but she would have added also, 'ready with her tongue,
and not quite straightforward in her ways.' Then, if she must be deposed
by her eldest son's wife, she would have been better pleased had he
looked higher, and gone courting where there would be a little money to
come home with the bride. Cate would have none to bring.

With such feelings uppermost, she did not contemplate the temporary
absence of Ales with too much favour, anxious as she was for some news
of Evan and of her missing money.

Mr. Pryse had disorganised the work in field and house for the one day
utterly. All was now behind-hand. She was herself upset, and a woman far
on the wrong side of fifty does not recover her balance too readily. The
sudden departure of Ales at this inopportune juncture was another upset.

But she would not confess her weakness to Rhys, lest he should make it
an excuse for bringing Cate to her assistance.

Yesterday--Tuesday--had been baking-day. In their trouble the oven had
been allowed to grow cool, and the dislodged terrier, who had shown a
set of angry teeth at Mr. Pryse, had gone back to his repose underneath
it. The barley and oatmeal for the bread lay in the brown crock, as Ales
had left it, with the bit of last week's dough in a bowl ready to leaven
it. Mixing, kneading, and baking was not light work, yet it must be
done. Thoughtful Davy had again driven away the dog from his hole in the
ash-pit, and lit the oven fire in readiness.

Then it was _Wednesday_, the churning and butter-making day. How was she
to bake and churn the same morning? for both required attention, and
when once the long-handled dasher was set in motion, up and down it must
go until the butter came, however long that might be, or all would be
spoiled.

Jane Edwards, persistent as her children, was at her wits' end, but she
could not call Jonet in from the field, for they were late in digging up
the potatoes, and if the frost came before they were in the pits, the
whole crop would be ruined.

Then dinner had to be thought of. It was a relief to her, whilst
kneading the mass of dough, to hear Davy scrubbing away with a ling
besom at the dinner potatoes in the stone hollow under the spring. But
she heard the quick voice of Rhys recalling him to his field-work, and
the passive 'I be coming,' which marked his subjection to his elder
brother.

At noon, when her family came in to dine, expecting the Wednesday's meal
of buttermilk and potatoes--still new enough to be something of a
treat--though there was a pleasant odour of baking bread in the kitchen,
and there were anticipations of a dough dumpling in the pot, there were
unmistakable grumblings and sour looks because there was only fresh milk
to go with the esculent root. (The difference is only to be estimated by
a trial on a farm where the buttermilk is fresh.)

Jane Edwards was overtired, and lost her temper. 'You could not expect
me to be baking and churning at the same time,' she jerked out angrily,
feeling already warm with her morning's work.

Here was the opportunity Rhys had looked for.

'You had better have had Cate here this morning to churn. Then you would
not have been so hurried, and our dinner would not have been spoiled.'

'Spoiled, indeed! I have seen the time you would all have been glad of
hot potatoes and salt, without milk at all,' was retorted.

William and Davy rushed to the rescue, rightly interpreting the mother's
frown. 'I'll stay and churn for you,' they cried in a breath.

'You'll do nothing of the kind. If those potatoes are not all in, and
covered up, they will be ruined. There was a touch of frost this
morning. And who's to do the milking?' said autocratic Rhys.

Jonet and William proffered their services, only to be rebuffed. This
was followed by a sharp altercation between the two brothers, widening
the existing breach, and--though William, out of consideration for his
mother, who interposed, did not bounce off and absent himself as
usual--it ended in the despatch of Lewis with a message to Cate, and the
speedy arrival of the girl, as if she had expected the summons.

Mrs. Edwards was taking a loaf of bread out of the oven when Cate came
in at the open door, and possibly set the harassed widow's red face down
to the heat of the oven--not to her temper.

'Lewis do be saying you do be wanting me to churn. I shall be glad to
help you any way, whatever,' Cate began demurely, just as if she had not
exchanged a syllable first with Rhys over the wall by the gateway.

'Yes, yes, sure. Mr. Pryse stopped the baking yesterday, and Ales be
gone to Cardiff, so we are late; and I must have the butter ready for
to-morrow's market.'

Cate had her hat off with the first words of assent; her bare feet
tripped lightly across the stone floor. She obtained from the pot on the
fire a pitcher of warm water, to raise the temperature of the milk, as
deftly as Ales could have done, and presently the dasher could be heard
plashing in the churn with regular beat, as if lifted by strong, firm
hands.

Mrs. Edwards, washing up the dinner things, sighed heavily, as if only
half-satisfied, for a new perplexity had arisen in debating with herself
who should go to Caerphilly market on the morrow. Whether she went or
Rhys, she foresaw the necessity for Cate or _some one_ to remain and
take the place of Ales. She, however, did not care to leave the girl as
her own deputy with Rhys at home to come and go at will.

The question was still unsettled when Cate called out that the butter
had come.

At once Mrs. Edwards stepped into the dairy, and, as if ready for all
contingencies, bare-legged Cate snatched up a milking-stool and pail,
and was off, singing as she went; while the other collected the butter
out of the churn, washed, salted, and moulded it into shape for market.

Back she came in due time, the full pail on her head, the stool tucked
under one arm, her knitting-pins clicking as rapidly as if she was
unencumbered.

Mrs. Edwards, moulding her butter at the dairy window, could but admit
to herself, as she watched her cross the yard with light, firm feet,
that Rhys might have chosen worse.

That night Cate remained on the farm. It was settled that Rhys was to
attend Caerphilly market. He was to load the pony and sled with potatoes
for sale--they were sure to fetch a good price, if only for seed, as
other farmers were beginning to plant them. He himself was to go on foot
bearing the egg-and-butter basket, since Breint, who would have carried
all, was gone.

Cate was up before the lark. Milking was done, breakfast ready, and she,
bright, brisk, and clean as a new pin by the time Rhys and the rest were
ready for the morning meal.

She was certainly on her mettle, and Rhys could barely have reached the
bottom of the hill before the relics of the meal were cleared away,
fresh fire-balls added to the peat on the hearth, and she ready, as she
told Mrs. Edwards, to take the place of Ales in the field.

William chuckled, and rubbed his hands together with glee, when he saw
his mother so reinforced.

He whispered to Jonet, as she followed to pick up the roots he dug out,
and remove the haulms, which really called for another hand.

Jonet nodded an affirmative.

'Mother,' he cried, 'if Cate will take the spade, you can sit still and
remove the haulms as Jonet gathers them up. I've got some work to be
doing that Rhys will not let me undertake. He says I don't know how,
whatever.'

He had thrown down his spade, and was out of the potato-field,
overleaping a wall, before his mother had time to question or
remonstrate.

Evan had kept his eyes here, there, and everywhere. If the troublesome
goats butted against a wall, and displaced a stone, he repaired the
breach at once to prevent further damage. Rhys had been less wary, and,
in his obstinacy, would not allow his youngest brother to see or know
more than himself.

Consequently, an old greybeard Billy had been allowed to make a gap in
the garden wall, and, though driven away with a stout broom-handle when
Ales or her mistress might be there to see, had played havoc among the
English herbs and flowering plants she was at such pains to rear. Then
Mr. Billy and his friends had tried their horns on the empty sty, now
the swine were turned to feed in the autumnal woods, and had done some
fine damage there.

If Cate handled a spade with the skill and vigour of experience, William
handled the unhewn stones with the inspiration of genius and long
practice 'in play.' And he worked as if his life depended on his speed
and skill.

Rhys made a good market, and came home with self-satisfied complacence
at a late hour, to sup and turn over his gains to his mother, along with
the news of the day. But he had no chance of a private word with Cate,
who had gone home with her father before eight o'clock, well pleased to
have earned the honest commendation of Mrs. Edwards, in addition to the
customary 'payment in kind.'

Morning came, noon came, and afternoon was speeding before Rhys
discovered that the broken-down wall and pig-stye were as whole and
sound as when new.

He stood before the latter in blank surprise. He had given no orders for
the repairs.

'Has Morgan the mason been here?' he bawled out after Jonet and William,
who were off with milking-stools and pails.

'No,' came quickly back over Jonet's shoulder.

'Who has been at work here?'

No audible answer came back this time, but, with a wondrous twinkle in
her expressive eyes, and an unmistakable grin on her face, Jonet pointed
with outstretched arm, in silence, to the younger brother striding on
well in advance.

It was a revelation to Rhys. His countenance fell. The wisdom of the
world did not rest on his individual shoulders. He stood there amazed,
hardly sure whether to be vexed or pleased, angry or grateful. Content
he certainly was not. He had been slyly circumvented, and that was
irritating, however necessary the repairs had been.

Into the house he strode in quest of his mother. He heard her at work
outside. Here a fresh enlightenment awaited him. She was endeavouring to
set her garden beds in order, behind a good firm wall. Her task was no
longer hopeless; she could sing over her work.

There was little need for Rhys to ask over again 'Who hath done this?'

Still less need for frowns and sullen looks.




CHAPTER XVI.

DISCOVERIES.


Robert Jones was a childless widower when he first picked up little
William crying in the lane, and gave him a lift on his donkey. He was
much older than Ales, but he was not too old to wish he had as smart and
capable a helpmate on his own hearth, where was only his half-blind
mother to keep all things fresh and clean. Many had been the sharp play
of words between him and Ales during her progress from girl to woman,
and, had not Evan come upon the scene when he did, Robert would
certainly have made a bid for her favour.

He was one of the first to perceive that the younger man had quite
spoiled his chances, and was generous enough to stand on one side, and
keep his disappointment to himself.

So generous was he, that, instead of hailing Evan's mysterious
disappearance with satisfaction, he stamped about and shook his fist at
an imaginary 'old Pryse,' as he listened to William's recital, and
proffered his services to 'poor Ales,' as if the recovery of her lost
lover did not mean the extinction of the last spark of a chance for
himself.

William could not have found for Ales a better safeguard on her way, or
a more zealous and capable assistant in her anxious quest.

In fact, from the time they landed in Cardiff, and he found her a
lodging with a dealer in peat, etc., who had her supplies from him, he
took the business pretty well out of her hands, having, during their
journey, made himself acquainted with Evan's errand and plans.

He argued with her that a strange young woman could not go about the
streets of a seaport town--though, apart from castle and old monastery,
Cardiff was but a very small place in 1733--without exciting attention
by her inquiries, and defeating her own purpose, whether Evan was
keeping out of the way, or was kept out of the way by others, even if
she escaped personal insult.

Whereas he, well known, and with his customary load of peat to dispose
of, could go from place to place and pick up, in gossip, without
exciting the suspicion of Mr. Pryse, or any one else, facts which might
be withheld from direct inquiry.

And so well did he fulfil his mission that, when the last rays of the
setting sun crimsoned the river and the fading woods of the Taff Valley
on the Friday evening, Ales, weary and dispirited, but no longer
ashamed, rode up the stony hillpath to the farm, on the back of good old
Breint.

Robert Jones had turned off towards his own home, with his team and his
return load, after a very curious disclaimer of thanks.

Part of that load consisted of a new turf-cutting spade and a small
glazed window for his hut. His newly-discovered need for these took him
among dealers in hardware and carpenters, until he found what else he
went for. He drove hard bargains, and paid in part with winter store of
peat; but he carried away more than the dealers supposed. In the one
place he observed a full set of implements for husbandry put aside, and
roughly labelled, 'Evan Evans, Castella, _Paid_,' and was told they had
so lain, 'lumbering up the place,' for fully three weeks, the buyer not
having turned up to claim them, although he had stated he intended to
take them up the river by boat when the tide served.

A crusty carpenter, who had two glass windows exposed for sale, was glad
to let one of them go as a bargain, seeing that the man for whom they
were made in a hurry three weeks before had disappeared mysteriously,
and not even gone back to his inn, on St. Mary's Quay, for his horse.

That bit of information about the inn had sent the turf-cutter tramping
across the town with his beasts, sure, at least, of much-needed rest and
provender, all houses of the kind, in those days of horseback travel and
pack-horse conveyance, having ample stable accommodation.

A warm supper, more plentiful than dainty, had been supplied to him in
the common room, odorous of tobacco-smoke, rum, _cwrw_, tar, and salt
water.

Presently a voice he knew hailed him from out the smoke-reek.

'Do that be you, Robert Jones? 'Deed, you're the very man to tell the
landlord here who owns an old horse left here three weeks ago by a
farming-man, who called himself Evan Evans, of Eglwysilan, and went off
without paying his score, look you!'

'Ah, how did he go off?'

'Queerly. He said as he was going to hire a boat to carry the horse and
some goods of his, as he was be taking to Castella, across the river in
the morning, but he never did come back here.'

'No,' chimed in the landlord, 'nor never did mean it, or he would not
have been going off in the _Osprey's_ boat, as he surely did.'

''Deed no! not if he did go of his own free will,' came from a feeble
voice in a corner; 'but I've heard as'--

'Sure, and didn't Mr. Pryse be saying he was be running off with a lot
of money?' again struck in the landlord, drowning the words of the
previous speaker.

On this ensued a warm controversy, in which some dark hints were thrown
out respecting the _Osprey_, and Mr. Pryse's connection therewith, all
bearing on the strangeness of Evan's disappearance.

Listening Robert Jones had come to the conclusion that the landlord was
under Mr. Pryse's finger and thumb, and cautiously made no comment. But
he kept his eye on the owner of the feeble voice, and, when he went out,
followed.

He had found the man shifty, timid, and unwilling to give an unspoken
opinion to a stranger.

So, too, were the tarry loungers upon the quay the next morning.

'Evans _might_ have been kidnapped and carried off against his will, the
crew of the _Osprey_ were a queer lot, look you; or he might be running
away, as Mr. Pryse did say--they could not tell.'

Mr. Pryse might have frozen free speech, but Robert Jones had noted
shrugs and nods more expressive than words. Then the application of two
silver pennies to the palm of a timorous lad opened his lips to tell
that he had seen a strange man, looking for a big boat, hustled into the
boat of the _Osprey_, and held down whilst the crew rowed out to the
schooner in the bay. And, when Ales herself discovered that Evan had
bought both a wedding-ring and a brooch for her, the conclusion was
obvious.

She had shed her tears in the three weeks gone. She returned to the farm
in tearless, but gnawing, uncertainty as to her Evan's fate, yet proud
of her ability to clear his honest name.

She was somewhat incoherent in her story, but Robert Jones an hour or so
later backed it up with fuller details, and his own convictions.

'Yes, yes, indeed, Evan Evans did go about his business like an honest
man. There be still the spades and things he paid for, and I have a
glass window he left his God-penny[12] on. He would have kept all the
money if he intended running away. No, no, he did be paying all the
rent, Mrs. Edwards, whatever Mr. Pryse do say.'

''Deed, it do seem like it. But why should he be "pressed" on board?'
she queried. 'There be no war now.'

'Why should any wicked deed be done?' put in Ales. 'A bad man do have
his reasons ready.'

'Yes, yes, and one evil head moves many evil hands, Mrs. Edwards,' added
Jones, 'if, as is hinted by them as daren't speak their minds, Mr. Pryse
do have dealings with the gruff captain of the _Osprey_ for something
fiery besides his lordship's coal. Then, smuggling a stout-limbed fellow
or two on board might be winked at, if it was no part of the bargain.
And I do be telling Ales not to think they would kill Evan. They want
living men for sailors, not dead ones.'

'Then God may bring him back to me some time, and I will pray day and
night for him. Yes, yes, though the day be long it will have an evening.
And let not Mr. Pryse be thinking to escape--


     "The later that God's vengeance is,
     The heavier far and sorer 'tis,"'


broke from Ales, her eyes and cheeks kindling as with a spirit of
prophecy, as she hurried from the kitchen into the dark storeroom beyond
to contend with her own agony in secret.

Then came a reckoning with Jones for Breint's keep at the inn (Ales had
cleared Evan's score as a matter of honour), and whilst settling that
with Mrs. Edwards, it occurred to him that her sons had pursued their
occupations in uncommon silence during this statement of facts and
fancies, especially Rhys, who seemed more interested in disentangling
the locks of wool he was combing by the fireside (his comb-pot on the
hearth) than on disentangling what seemed an unaccountable plot against
his mother's tried and faithful servant.

William, knitting a long blue stocking in the opposite corner, had put
in an occasional word, but even he did not appear at ease.

Davy's wooden soles had been heard clattering outside along with sounds
indicative of more care for recovered Breint than the absent Evan.

He walked in from the farmyard just in time for the supper of hot
leek-porridge Jonet poured scalding hot into their bowls, not forgetting
one for the turf-cutter, who sat down without apology, for the odour was
appetising.

Again he noticed that Rhys and William preserved a sullen silence
towards each other, and wondered what fresh quarrel there had been.

When supper was over, and he rose to depart, William followed him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than the boy began to lay bare his
grievance in tones of wounded self-esteem.

'Look you,' said he, 'since Evan went, Old Billy has been suffered to
butt at the walls, and never a stone had been put back to keep him from
the styes, till they did be like to tumble down. So yesterday, while
Rhys was at market, I did work till the sweat poured off me, and mended
them all, thinking I would let Rhys see what I could do. And since he
found out this afternoon what I had been doing, he has never spoken one
word to me, whatever. If I had knocked the walls down he could not have
looked more surly. It's enough to make one run away, it is! And if it
was not for mother and Jonet, I would be running away, 'deed I would.'

'Hush, Willem, don't be saying that; runaway sons make sorrowful
mothers. Don't be thinking of doing anything rash, anything you cannot
be asking the blessing of Almighty God upon. Perhaps you neglected
something Rhys expected done, of more consequence than a dry wall.'

'Sure, Cate Griffith did be digging the potatoes. She could not build up
walls. I do believe Rhys is vexed just because mother was so well
pleased, and began to put her garden right that Billy and the pigs had
spoiled. Rhys would have liked Evan better if mother had found fault
with him.'

The boy's bitter attempt at self-justification was checked by his mature
friend.

'Faults are thick where love is thin, Willem. You are only a boy and
your brother is a man. It is not for you to go your own way and disobey
wilfully. But I will look at your handiwork in the morning, when I bring
the lime for the land; and, perhaps, be saying a word to bring Rhys to
reason. Good-night, Willem. Go to bed peacefully. And don't be building
up a wall of stony thoughts against your brother, don't.'

These were his parting words to the chafing lad, as they stood by the
gateway, but, as he descended the hill in the full light of the moon, he
said to himself, 'Better repair a breach between brothers than build up
a wall to repel a fancied enemy.'

It was in this spirit the man addressed himself to Rhys the next
morning, whilst helping Lewis to transfer the lime from the panniers to
the freshly-dug potato ground, and the unturned stubble of oats and
barley. He said he had observed signs of discontent between the brothers
the previous night, and on other occasions, and expressed a desire to
know if any real cause for discord existed. It was so very serious a
thing for brothers in one house to bicker and quarrel; small differences
were so liable to grow into great ones, even to enmity and hatred.

Rhys listened uneasily, fidgeted, puckered his brows, and at last jerked
out, 'Look you, Robert Jones, that boy Willem is the plague of my life.
He will not take orders from me. And who else should give orders if I am
to manage the farm? Davy and Jonet obey. But he do think of nothing but
picking up stones and building; and that will not make a good farmer or
till the land, or pay the rent. He was mending walls on Thursday when he
should have been digging potatoes. We may thank Cate Griffith they were
all up and safe from last night's frost. She took up the spade he threw
down.'

'Ah, well, Rhys, all the world are not farmers. Cate's father is a
weaver. I cut turf, and sell lime and culm and aught else, to turn an
honest penny. But let me see what sort of a young builder you have on
the farm. You know I do be going about the country and use my eyes, so I
know good walls from bad ones.'

'Sure, they do be well enough for a boy's work,' half contemptuously
admitted Rhys, whilst pointing out the repairs in walls and sties.

Jones gave them more than a cursory examination.

'Yes, yes, Rhys. But they do be "well enough" for a _man's_ work, that
they do. The stones are well fitted and firm. You owe the boy thanks,
not blame. Don't you be for thwarting Willem, or you may be spoiling a
good builder to make a poor farmer. A sound fence is a farmer's friend.
Let him keep your fences sound, and he will help to pay the rent, 'deed
he will.'

'I don't see how.'

'Your eyes are blinded by prejudice, man. Would not a stray cow, or hog,
or pony that found a gap ready, do more damage to crops in a day than
you could repair in a month?'

This was not to be gainsaid. But when the turf-cutter urged William's
claim to just consideration and recognition of his service, the pride of
Rhys was up in alarm for his own authority.

'He is such a boy,' he argued.

'No more a boy than you were, Rhys, when you first tried to fill your
dead father's place, and told your mother you were "old enough to do
your duty." Have you forgotten that? Or are you _younger_ than you were
then?'

Whether he had forgotten, or did not choose to remember, he turned off
with a light laugh, and the remark, 'I'm not doing my duty in idling
here.'

But conscience is a mill that grinds at all hours, and unsought, and
Robert Jones had set the wheels in motion.

'Willem,' said the peat-cutter to the depressed boy, just before he
cracked his whip to set his unloaded team in motion downhill, 'if you
build up your life as well as you have built up your garden wall, you'll
do. It is firm and compact, and the stones are set evenly together. But
strife between brothers is a bad foundation to build upon. And it is not
for a lad of your age to be unruly, and oppose the brother who has so
long been working for all of you. There is time enough before you to
build walls or churches, or what you will; but you have none to lose if
you would bind the bond of brotherhood around you, or lay the foundation
of a Christian life, look you.'

William's eyes brightened, and his chest expanded under his Saturday's
sullied smock-frock, as his early friend commended his handiwork, for


     'Praise is pleasanter than honey,'


and hitherto he had not been cloyed with the sweetmeat. But his aspect
changed. He did not relish the bitter dose of advice mingled with the
honey, for his whole soul was in rebellion.

Yet, swift and sharp as the man's whip crack, memory brought back those
other words to the same purport the stranger, Mr. Morris, had spoken
long ago, and every hoof-beat of mule or ass seemed to hammer them into
his brain.

Far down the steep hill were beasts and driver before William roused
from his reverie, and rushed after them, shouting as he went. The man
turned.

'What is it, Willem?'

'Can you teach me to count?'

'Yes, up to a hundred, in tens. That is the way I count my peat.'

'Oh, I can be counting that as I knit.'

'Ah, then, if you do be wanting to reckon properly, and do sums with
figures, you had better be asking Owen Griffith; he do be clever at
that. I will speak to him for you.'

''Deed, I would be so glad.'

Robert Jones was as good as his word. Owen's cottage was not on his
direct road, but he did not mind going out of his way to do a kindness.

The weaver had just taken a finished web of blue flannel out of his
loom, and sat smoking a long pipe on the bench outside.

After the first salutation, the turf-cutter began by saying, 'Have you
seen the dry wall Willem Edwards have been building up so cleverly?'

'Sure to goodness, no. Yet he did always have a notion that way. I have
heard Rhys and Cate be laughing over it many a time.'

''Deed, yes, Owen, but it's not to be laughed at. That boy have a head,
look you. I've seen walls built and mended less securely by old hands
before now.'

'Sure now! You don't say so? I wish he would come and repair mine. It's
been tumbling down, stone by stone, waiting till Morgan the mason did be
coming round.'

'Well, you ask Willem. And if you would be offering to teach him to
reckon up with figures, he would be proud and pleased to build it up.
'Deed he would. He do just be asking me to teach him. But you go looking
at that wall of his. Willem do want encouraging, not laughing at. He
will build up more than a broken-down wall some day.--Shall you be
wanting peat or lime next week?'

'Ah, yes; and if you think Willem can mend the wall you can bring a sled
of stones as well.'

The next day, on the way from church, Owen Griffith got William by his
side, and set him counting the trees by the wayside, and the sheep on
the hills, as preliminary to lessons in arithmetic, but nothing said he
of any broken walls.

He left that for the afternoon, when he and Cate walked up to the farm,
ostensibly to learn what news Ales had brought from Cardiff.

Over all that he shook his head, uncertain what to make of it, though he
said, 'It do look bad, it do.'

But there was nothing uncertain in his exclamation of surprise at the
firmly repaired walls Mrs. Edwards showed so proudly as the work of her
youngest son.

It led to the open proposal that William should restore his fences to
condition in return for lessons in arithmetic, and to Mrs. Edwards'
consent to that use of his time.

Rhys had strolled away with Cate to talk over the deferred prospect of
their marriage, and so did not hear of this arrangement until
afterwards, when, for reasons of his own, he thought best to keep the
peace.

It was the small beginning of greater things.

FOOTNOTE:

[12] God-penny--a deposit.




CHAPTER XVII.

PROPER TOOLS.


Ales had resumed her work on the farm, but not with the spirit and
vivacity of old. She had been wont to sing over her work, and had a
store of old Welsh ballads in her memory. But the song-bird mourned in
silence for the mate torn away so ruthlessly, and, as weeks and months
and years rolled on in the same drear monotony of hopelessness, her
heart grew colder and heavier, and her prayers became as the very
wailings of despair.

It cut her to the soul to hear Rhys grumbling, as he did, at the money
filched from them to pay, not only the rent Evan should have paid, but
the heavy costs of a seizure in addition; and she more than once
resolved to quit the farm when the year expired.

Second thoughts, however, suggested that nothing would suit the young
man better, and his very grumbling might have that end in view; for,
once rid of her, he could seek the necessary consent to bring in a wife
with a good grace.

He had not improved in temper, certainly. It had irritated him to hear
William lauded for the very proclivities he had held of so small
account, nay, turned into ridicule.

It was no satisfaction to have a brother so much younger competent to
enlarge and raise the walls of the sheepfold, as he did, before a second
winter set in. What though a mason's charges were saved, was not the
saving at the greater cost of his own supremacy?

And in the long winter nights when he and Davy sorted fleeces or combed
the wool, or tended the dye-pot on the fire; when Ales taught Jonet to
twirl the flaxen thread drawn from the distaff, so as to set the spindle
dancing on the floor to the tune of the mother's industrious
spinning-wheel, how it tried his patience to see William making figures
and calculations on a board, with chalk or ruddle by the light of the
candle, whilst the knitting-pins, which should have been earning money,
lay idle by his side.

There are men ready to perform generous acts, who are flagrantly unjust,
but cannot see it. Robert Jones had urged Rhys Edwards to 'be just.' He
should have said 'be generous,' and Rhys might have responded to the
appeal. He resented the imputation of injustice.

Yet he denied to his brother the meed of praise his service merited; he
begrudged him the time to acquire the common rules of simple arithmetic;
perhaps because he felt it was a step to something beyond his own
attainment. He counted not the money saved in masonry as money earned.
He might have been content had William been as passively submissive as
Davy and Jonet, but he found in him a spirit boldly daring to cope with
his own, and it stung him to find the boy upheld in his resistance.

So years crept on. The third winter passed, the snows melted, the roads
were free for traffic, the river sang a paean to approaching spring, the
pink and brown buds were bursting into green, song birds were flitting
and fluttering about the eaves and boughs, all was life and activity
upon the farm. The _Osprey_ had never again put into port at Cardiff,
where Mr. Pryse bit his nails and snarled more cantankerously than ever,
and nothing had been heard of Evan. Ales lost heart, she did not sing
with the birds; but William, no longer snubbed, worked on the farm with
the best, until another barrier rose between himself and Rhys, in the
shape of another stone wall.

Hedges have now superseded walls in many parts of Glamorganshire; but at
the date of this narrative, the fields and lanes were universally
bounded by what are known as '_dry walls_,' and still they serve as
fences on the uplands.

By 'dry walls' are to be understood walls built without mortar or
cement, of irregular, unhewn flagstones, so put together, so wedged in
one with another, as to stand firm where a cemented wall might give way
exposed to the high winds of those elevated regions, the very crevices
allowing the blasts to pass through, and so reduce the pressure on the
mass. Such are the walls in Craven and other parts of northern England.

Yet it is no uncommon thing for the coping-stones to be hurled away in
a fierce gale, or for large portions of such walls to be blown down, as
came to pass on Brookside Farm that gusty spring.

Here was an opportunity for William to turn his talent to account and
save his mother's pocket, as be sure he did.

So far, so good. Rhys made no objection, and Mrs. Edwards was well
pleased. Davy had begun to feel proud of his brother.

But it so happened that Robert Jones, whose window had long before been
fitted in by William, came to seek his services, not merely to repair a
breach, but to enclose a portion of ground as a stone yard.

Rhys, then engaged sowing barley on last year's turnip ground, looked as
black as two thunder-clouds rolled into one, and without mincing his
words gave a decided refusal.

'Willem is not a public stonemason, Robert Jones. He is now dibbling in
the potato-sets, and cannot be spared. You asked me to "be just"; do you
think you are just in seeking to draw him away from the farm at this
busy season?' and with a very strong oath he swore 'Willem should _not_
build walls for him or any one else.'

But the leader of the peat-cutter's team happened to carry a resonant
bell, as did the leading beast of all packhorse teams, in order to warn
other teamsters, or the drivers of cattle or carriages, that the narrow
roadway was blocked, and one or the other must wait in the nearest
broadened space provided as a refuge until the advancing team had
passed and left the road clear. Such open grassy spots may still be seen
in England's narrow by-ways, and there gipsies make their camps. Nay,
even in the heart of busy London, old Paternoster Row is so provided
with spaces where two carts may pass abreast.

The bell, set ringing through the clear March air with every motion of
the mule's head, brought William leaping over runnel, ridge and furrow,
and dividing fence to greet his old and true friend.

The voice of Rhys, ever loud and authoritative, now raised and vehement,
reached William as he came bounding along.

'Who says I shall not build walls for any one?' he cried. 'I _will_, and
no one here shall stop me. Do you think I mean to dig and delve all my
life, and be labourer to you?'

'Labourer to me, you jackanapes? Do you think your intermittent labour
pays for your sustenance? But if you quit the farm this day to go
wall-building, you may quit it altogether. I am not going to wear my
life away to support you in idleness. Cyphering at night, piling up
stones by day, rambling off to Caerphilly Castle when you should be at
work--what sort of labour do you call that?'

'Head-work; of no account with you. But, look you, I'll go and come as I
please, and build walls if I please. And I don't be owning you for
master. If we can but find the old lease, it may turn out the youngest
son is heir and not the eldest. But let me tell you that for the toss
up of a silver penny I'd quit the farm for ever, only I know that's what
you do be wanting. You would be glad to get either me or Ales out to
make room for Cate. But while we stay, mother do be mistress, and shall
be.'

For a moment Rhys seemed dumbfounded. Then he sprang upon his brother,
and grappled with him as if he would have borne him to the earth.

The fifteen years lad was thick set and sturdy, and stood his ground
well, but he was no match for the man of more toughened frame and
indurated muscle.

It would have gone badly with the younger had not the turf-cutter
interposed, and, by sheer force, thrust them apart.

'What!' cried he, 'are you two brothers so jealous of each other you
would strive like Cain and Abel? Shame on you both! Would you bring
death and sorrow on your mother's hearth once more?'

They stood panting, but abashed, as he proceeded--

'Surely, what with one loss after another--the rent money unaccounted
for when Evan disappeared, the cruel bill for costs, the raising of the
rent, the missing lease--the poor widow do be passing through a sea of
trouble, with cares enough to drown her, without you two, who should be
her help and comfort, adding to the load. Are you not ashamed?'

'It be Rhys' fault!' 'It be Willem's fault!' they cried simultaneously,
alike moved by the reference to their mother, whom they loved with deep
affection.

'You are alike to blame. Each one has some reason on his side; but, let
me tell you, lads, it is always the one most in the wrong who is the
last to give in. Now, shake hands and be friends. I came here thinking
to be doing you all a service, for it would pay better for Willem to be
building walls than doing common field-work. But I don't be wanting to
breed dissension between you, so I will be getting Morgan the stonemason
to build my wall.'

William's lips were set close.

The brothers looked at each other; Rhys wavered. The reference to
'better pay' had struck a vibrating chord in his breast.

'If'--he began.

'_I_ will build your wall, look you, pay or no pay, Robert Jones. But
you will not be wanting me to-day, whatever?'

'No, not until next week; but fair work must have fair pay. Yet, what
say you, Rhys?'

Here was a loophole for Rhys to slip through. 'Oh, indeed, if you don't
be wanting to call him off his work to-day or to-morrow, it may be
managed.'

So it was amicably settled, and when the turf-cutter went his way,
William was on his knees helping Rhys to gather up what he could of the
barley spilled from his seed-wallet during their unbrotherly struggle.

It so happened that the following Sunday the vicar took for his text, 2
Peter i. 5, 6, and 7, dwelling especially on the last--'_And to
godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity_'--in
such manner that both Rhys and William took it to heart, imagining he
had heard of their antagonism, and was addressing his sermon especially
to them. No doubt there were others in the congregation to whom the
sermon might apply with equal force, but they two held their heads down,
as if to hide the crimson flush that mounted to the roots of their brown
hair, and fidgeted uneasily upon their high-backed seat.

Anyway that was the end of their open strife. And when, at the close of
another week, William carried home to his mother, in good hard coin,
more than double the hire of a field-labourer, reserving a very small
portion for himself, there was nothing said by way of objection to his
craze for building, or his efforts to attain a more complete knowledge
of arithmetical calculation.

Few persons ever found their way to Brookside Farm except on business,
fewer still cared to ask who kept the fences and outhouses in such good
order; and though Owen Griffith's house was by the roadside, ordinary
passers-by were not likely to stop and put such questions, even if they
gave the walls a second glance.

But Robert Jones had become a thriving man of business. He had increased
the number of his team, and still travelled the country round with culm
and peat, and clay and lime. There was scarcely a farmer or cottager on
all Eglwysilan mountain, or near it, who did not on occasion call at his
place, either to carry away some of his necessary commodities, or to
leave a special order. And these were the very men to whom fences were
of importance, the very men to know a good, compact wall when they saw
it.

Jones had a long head. He had a double motive when he began to deal in
broken flagstone, and invited William Edwards to build up an enclosing
wall for his stores. He knew the wall would attract attention, bring the
self-taught young mason into notice, and help to sell his stone.

The event justified his far-seeing calculations. Before another spring
brought William's sixteenth birthday, he was known to be the best
builder of dry walls within a wide area, and his services were in
frequent request.

There was no more snubbing under his mother's roof, for with a very
small reserve for personal needs, he poured all his earnings into her
lap as to a common store; and rising in estimation, he was thanked with
heartfelt satisfaction, so material and so necessary were added gains to
meet increased demands, extortionate Mr. Pryse, sneering and grinning at
their inability to confront him with their lease, having raised the rent
a second time, and threatened still harsher measures.

And no one now lent a more willing hand to any work upon the farm, when
not otherwise employed, than thoughtful William, who saw with pain the
streaks of white interlacing his mother's once black hair.

But William Edwards was not content to be a mere builder of dry walls.
He looked at the masonry of the church and of Caerphilly Castle, and was
conscious he had much to learn. How to enlarge his fund of knowledge was
a problem. But he was not easily daunted.

One Sunday he observed a cow and sundry sheep trespassing on the
vicar's glebe, having taken a wide gap in the wall as an invitation. No
sooner was service concluded than he marched up boldly to the vicar,
reminded him of promised help, explained his desire to master higher
forms of arithmetic than Owen Griffith had ability to teach, and
modestly offered to repair the glebe wall if the vicar would accept his
services. The Rev. John Smith smiled, and assented readily. William set
to work upon the wall the next day, going into the vicarage parlour when
candles were lighted, and making the best use of the privilege accorded.
Long after the wall shut out four-footed intruders, William might be
seen on his way to the vicarage, after a hard day's work, once or twice
a week, a bit of candle stuck in a hollowed turnip serving to light him
home when there was no moon.

It was about this time a gleam of stronger light shone on his darkness.

He was engaged enclosing a fresh field for a farmer about two miles from
Caerphilly. Raising his head, and giving his arms a stretch, his
attention was arrested by a noise there was no mistaking. There was a
blacksmith's shop by the roadside, and almost in front of it a load of
stones was being dumped down from a cart, or what then answered to the
name in that wild region. It was little more than a sled, low to the
ground, but running on broad wheels or rollers of solid wood, girthed
with iron bands and drawn by four horses.

His curiosity was excited. A group of working men were there. What were
they about to do? One man was measuring the ground, the others, doffing
their coats, rolled up their shirt sleeves, and also set to work.

A trench was dug along the lines marked out. And now two mules came up
with laden panniers. William overleapt his own low wall and drew nearer
to observe, his pulses beating rapidly. He was coming on the secret he
had so long panted to learn.

A heap of sand was emptied on the ground, and hollowed out like a huge
shallow bowl. Into this was poured lime from the other panniers, and
then a man carrying a pail brought water from a wayside runnel and
poured it on the lime. There was no need to tell whence rose that volume
of steam to one who whitewashed his mother's farm buildings so
repeatedly. But the stirring up and mixing of mortar was new to him. And
what was that soft fluff shaken out of a bag when the steam began to
subside? It was something with which the wind made free and blew about
almost like thistle-down--ay, almost into his own face. He caught a
loosened tuft; examined it. It could be nothing but cow's hair. So that
was how the mortar was bound together!

Anon began a chipping and ringing of steel upon stone, that was, and was
not, new to him.

Nearer and nearer he drew, yet afraid of exciting observation. He knew
his own purpose, and felt as if the busy masons would know it too, and
drive him away before his object was attained.

He watched the mason chip and dress the stones to shape until the one
fitted its fellows, and they were laid side by side in a bed of mortar
within the trench, and fresh mortar spread on these with a trowel to
receive a second layer of stones for the foundation.

Then he went back to his own dry-wall building. But never had wall taken
him so long before, for day by day he watched the masons at their work,
and day by day learned something fresh--even the uses of square and
plummet--until a well-built farrier's shed adjoined the blacksmith's
forge, with smoothly-rounded pillars bearing up the roof.

He had learned the secret of the masons' tools, primarily the hammer,
with which the stones were chipped and dressed. Unlike his own, it was
steeled at _both_ ends, one end shaped like an axe.

From a smith in Caerphilly he obtained just such another before the week
was out.

Brief apprenticeship! No premium paid! No years of servitude to a
master! God had gifted him with peculiar faculties. He had a special
bias; he had also intelligence, perseverance, and determination to
succeed. He had achieved so far a measure of success.

He began to speculate on success he could not measure.




CHAPTER XVIII.

IN THE GRIP OF A STRONG HAND.


Five years had come and gone since that sad October when Evan Evans rode
away from Brookside Farm buoyant with hope and expectation, yet from
that hour no word or sign of his existence, no token of his death, had
come to set feverish doubt at rest.

They had been five worrying and wearying years. For although William
brought home his larger earnings to the common store, and his brothers
did their best upon the farm, and there had been none but ordinary
losses, the abstracted money had never been replaced. Mr. Pryse had
prevented that with his extortionate raising of the rent. Then he had
taken to visiting the farm at intervals, making free comments with
sarcastic flings at Rhys, and cutting allusions to the still-missing
Evans, and to the missing lease, which he insisted the man must have
carried off, if it ever existed.

Ales had much to bear through it all. Every doubtful or stinging
allusion to Evan cut her like a knife. But deep in her heart, as in a
well of truth and faith, she cherished a belief that in God's good time
he would come back to comfort her, and confound his traducers. And so
year after year she kept her place in spite of the black looks of Rhys
and Cate.

Robert Jones would gladly have made another home for her. But Ales only
shook her head, and said with a heavy sigh: 'What would I do if Evan
came back? No, better remain for ever unmarried than for ever marred.'
And finding her constancy unshaken, the man brought an orphan niece into
his cottage to care for himself and his mother, a tacit confession that
his suit was hopeless.

Some such proverbial answer Mrs. Edwards gave to Rhys about this time
when he urged how much better it would be to have Cate always at hand as
his wife, than to be paying for her frequent services, when William was
away wall-building, as was often the case. 'Besides, mother, you cannot
be expecting to keep Jonet always at home,' said he. 'Thomas Williams is
beginning to talk to her, and it is clear he do be thinking of taking a
wife, and he five years younger than myself, look you.'

'It will take a long while thinking, if he do be thinking of Jonet for a
wife, and him not even got his workshop built,' replied the mother with
decision. 'Your patience will hardly hold out till Jonet makes way for
Cate. But, indeed, there do be no room here for a wife. And Cate must
know it.'

'We might make room, if you were willing,' he persisted. 'We need only
be clearing out the fleeces, pots, pans, and other lumber, and shut in
the place at the back with a bit of wall and a door, and there will be a
room as big as the dairy.'

'Indeed, and where would you be for putting what you call "lumber"?'

Rhys hesitated, pushed his fingers through his loose brown hair two or
three times, as if to rake up an idea. What he called lumber were
household goods and utensils in common request, fire-balls and turf
included.

'Oh, sure, I can be talking to Willem about that;' and he strode away,
with bent brows, leaving his mother to finish her whitewashing of the
cottage front, and to digest his suggestion at leisure.

The Thomas Williams to whom Rhys had referred was the second son of the
carpenter who had laughed in his sleeve at Mrs. Edwards' new notion of
housing and scrubbing her swine, but who had ceased to laugh at
improvements that had brought him in work all round. In fact, he had
enclosed his workshop and glazed his small windows, not to be behind his
precocious son.

That son, Thomas Williams, was fully five years older than William
Edwards, but the two had been drawn together from the fact that both
indulged in original ideas, and smarted under a want of appreciation at
home.

Thus it happened that when Rhys gave his mother a hint that Thomas
Williams was making up to Jonet, his own brother was engaged in rearing
a workshop for the young carpenter in close proximity to the premises of
Robert Jones in the Aber Valley. At home he had been told he was too
young to set up for himself, but he had served his seven years'
apprenticeship to his father, had saved a little money, and was not so
young as the self-taught mason, who was making _his_ first experiment
in house-building for him.

On his father's hearth he was scoffed at for trusting so much as the
raising of a workshop to the untried hands of a mere boy. So of his
plans or his ulterior intentions he said little there, desirous to
escape inevitable sneers and discouragement.

It was at Brookside Farm by the fireside after dark, the two young
fellows had laid their heads together, and matured their plans, long
before they were put into operation, and it was there the original idea
of a workshop and living-room behind developed into something more.

It was there, night after night, whilst Rhys was down the hill at the
weaver's, that Thomas Williams had unsuspected opportunities for seeing
Jonet's fitness for wifehood. True, he had noticed her bright black eyes
and hair, her clear complexion and pleasing smile, her neat attire and
dapper figure, times out of mind on Sundays, and had thought how lithe
and supple were her movements, how modest her demeanour. But it was on
her mother's hearth, whether knitting, or spinning from her distaff,
chatting all the while with one or other, and making much of her
brothers, or when helping Ales to prepare supper, that he saw how ready
she was to make herself useful and agreeable as well.

So it was that, out of the first design for a mere workshop, gradually a
plan for the construction of a whole house shaped itself.

William Edwards was short and sturdy; his round face had become square,
his forehead broad, his jaw inclined to be massive; his keen grey eyes
were deep set and thoughtful, his nose was large with broad nostrils,
his dark brown hair crisp as a crown--at seventeen a premature man of
thought and action, with strong, capable hands.

He was a thorough contrast to his friend, who was tall and slight, had a
fair clear skin, with a tinge of healthy colour in his cheeks, and a
crop of wavy auburn hair; in short, a handsome young fellow.

Handsome enough to attract Jonet, and more than Jonet; but not to lead
Mrs. Edwards to countenance too much intimacy until assured that neither
her son nor his friend had miscalculated his skill or its results.

Certainly William Edwards had not.

Passers-by, or people having business with the turf-cutter, lingered to
watch the young mason at his work, as the walls gradually rose above the
foundations, until firm, even, and compact as if laid by a master-hand,
with a couple of rooms in the rear and an undivided attic over all, the
whole stood fair to view. But even before Thomas Williams had laid the
last rafter, or the thatched roof was on, or the casements were glazed,
the owner might be seen at his bench plying plane or saw to make the
whole substantial and complete.

The situation had been well selected. Proximity to Robert Jones'
premises was as good as a modern advertisement to both young builders.
Then it was on the main road to church, and was certain to arrest
attention and inquiry.

Rhys stood before it the Sunday after completion, along with Cate and
her father, feeling something like pride in his self-taught brother for
the first time. He had taken a critical survey of all, back and front,
when he heard Robert Jones calling out to him from his own low doorway--

'Look you there now! What do you think of that? Didn't I be telling you
not to spoil a good builder to make a bad farmer?'

'Indeed you did, and I think you were right. But where he did be
learning it all does be puzzling me.'

'Ah, well, you wait and see. The little one will be the big one in the
end.'

The rest of the family had come up, Mrs. Edwards between William and
Davy, Jonet having dropped behind with handsome Thomas Williams.

Congratulations came thick and fast, even from strange voices.

Rhys grasped his brother by the hand, and pressed it warmly.

'I did never be thinking you could do this, Willem, whatever. I do be
pleased and proud to see it.'

''Deed, I did be knowing it long ago, and so did Robert Jones,' put in
Owen Griffith.

'I wish I had known it. But where did you be learning to build like
_this_?' asked Rhys, who held his dry walls of small account.

'Sure, and I did be studying at Caerphilly Castle, where you did be
thinking me idling. Grand masonry does be there!' replied William.

Mrs. Edwards' eyes were swimming with tears. She saw a future before her
son, and silently she thanked God.

'Will you like to be looking inside?' said the owner, who had unfastened
the door and held it open whilst Mrs. Edwards and Jonet walked in.

The floor of the front shop was already thickly carpeted with curly
shavings, and crowded with odd pieces of oak and pine shaped and trimmed
ready to put together, a rush basket of tools was set upon the workman's
bench under the window, pieces of timber were reared against the bare
walls, and there was already an air of business about the place.

'It is all rough and bare at present,' said Thomas Williams
apologetically. 'When the walls do be dry enough to whitewash, and
these'--pointing to the incongruous pile upon the floor--'are made into
stout seats and tables, and my tools do be set in order, as well as the
house, you must be coming to look again, and rest on your way from
church.'

'No one will be more welcome, whatever,' he added with emphasis, and a
covert glance at Jonet, who had her feet on a flight of narrow stone
steps leading up aloft. Presently she came down in surprise.

'Why, mother, look you; there is a big room overhead. What do that be
for?'

Thomas flushed.

''Deed, William said it was best make the house complete at first, and
show what we could do. Until it be wanted it will serve to keep my best
timber dry and safe.'

'But you do not be noticing how solid and substantial are the walls.'
This to Mrs. Edwards.

'Yes, yes, sure I do! And I pray God to prosper the work of both your
hands.'

'Amen!' came with fervour from both young fellows, and had a loud echo
from the peat-cutter in the rear.

There were not lacking turned-up noses or sneering comments on the
presumption of two untried beginners setting out so pretentiously; but
to them the substantial building with its two floors was as a modern
manufacturer's pattern-card, and brought commissions to one or both.

And it frequently happened that the two were engaged to work together,
certainly whenever Robert Jones had a chance to put in a word.

Long before Thomas Williams had his house set in order, or its wooden
fittings complete, the vicar paid him a visit of inspection, and with
him a gentleman he addressed as Mr. Morris. And a very close inspection
the latter made, sounding and measuring the walls and trying the cement.

'Good workmanship--extremely good workmanship,' said he; 'but I expected
no other from the boy. I shall recommend him.'

His opinion or his recommendation must have been worth something, for,
very shortly, William Edwards was called upon to erect another
two-floored house of even larger dimensions, nearer to Caerphilly and to
the farrier's shed where he had graduated in masonry.

Previously to that, as they walked home, arm in arm together, after that
Sunday view of the new workshop, Rhys had laid before him the latest
impediment their mother had thrown in the way of his marriage. It was
something new for him to take counsel with William.

'Ah, well, Rhys,' assented he, 'mother do be something unreasonable. She
do be worse than Laban, for you have been after Cate longer than Jacob's
whole service, and you have been a dutiful son to wait so long. I will
soon be making a room for you somewhere--sure I will.'

Leaving Rhys at the foot of the hill, he turned back to help his mother
up the steep ascent, she having walked to church.

Finding her in the best of good humours, he advocated his brother's
cause so successfully that, by the time they were at the top, he had her
consent to build an additional room at the chimney-end of the house,
agreeing that, if the room were ready, the marriage might take place at
Hollantide, or earlier, if all the crops were harvested and housed.

'Ready, and May still blossoming?' William laughed as he collected his
materials, and cleared sufficient ground, it seemed such a small affair.
But before he had his wall two feet high came the unexpected commission
for a two-storeyed house, also required in a given time, and put a stop
to his brotherly arrangement.

It was a proud moment for the young builder, though Rhys looked blank,
and all was not clear before himself.

'Never mind, Rhys,' said he; 'your place shall be ready in time. I wish
I was as sure of the money to carry on the other work. I mean to manage
it, but I do not like to be asking mother for my money back again.
Jones has offered to find the stone, and wait for payment, and Williams
the woodwork; but there will be labourers' wages, and other things. I
must think it out.'

He had not occasion to waste much time on 'thinks.' Mother and brothers
agreed that the bulk of his contributions to the general purse should be
regarded as a reserve fund for his use, nothing doubting it would be
mutually advantageous.

So his new undertaking was planned out, begun, and carried to a
successful issue, to the joint profit of himself and friends, and the
satisfaction of his employer. Not, however, without one or two hitches,
and a considerable expenditure of thought, for he was at once architect
and builder; and surely never one so young and self-taught before. But I
am telling fact and not fable.

In those days, if people worked long hours, it was not at express speed.
There was no 'scamping,' for durability was a desideratum.

It was therefore late in September before William could spare time to
add another stone to the wall at Brookside, and even then he had to lend
a hand in the harvest-field.

He had, however, passed his word to Rhys, and there was no fear that he
would break it. His promise meant performance, by hook or by crook.

Besides, it was no great matter, and very soon Thomas Williams had the
joists and other woodwork ready on the ground, and was fitting in the
framework of the doorway, for the young mason, mounted on a plank raised
upon sods, was adjusting the crowning stones of the new gable with an
aspect of self-content.

It was close upon the dinner-hour, and Cate, as impatient as Rhys, had
hurried to the front of the house along with Jonet to note progress, and
clapped her hands in glee to find the masonry so near completion.

At that juncture William cast his eyes downhill. A sharp 'Ugh!'
indicative of annoyance burst from him. 'Here do be coming that wicked
old Pryse,' he cried. 'What do he be wanting here?'

The uphill road wound round to the farmyard in the rear. A stile
admitted to the enclosure in front and a narrow gap farther away. Here,
at the stile, he alighted from his horse, throwing the reins over the
side-post.

'Ah, sure,' said he, with the straight-lipped smile which he made so
offensive, 'things must be prospering with you. It is well to have a
builder in the family when the house is too small. Some one must be
going to venture on a wife; or perhaps Mrs. Edwards has grown weary of
her widowhood?'

How evil was the look in those half-closed eyes of his, as William
answered from his platform--

'Rhys is going to be married, sir. Have you anything to say against
that?'

'Oh, dear, no. Rhys, indeed! Let me congratulate him on the auspicious
prospect, and on the prosperity it indicates. His lordship will be
delighted, I am sure, to hear of these additions to the farm and the
family.' And as he spoke he rubbed one skinny hand over the other
slowly--


     'Washing his hands with invisible soap,
       In imperceptible water'--


with apparent satisfaction born of anything but goodwill.

Rhys and Mrs. Edwards coming upon the scene, the same mock salutations
were offered, the sneer being so palpable that Jonet involuntarily edged
nearer to Thomas Williams, and Cate caught at the arm of Rhys as if for
protection.

For once he declined their proffered hospitality, contenting himself
with a horn of cider. A mountain farmer's vegetarian meal was little to
his liking, and he knew that meat was reserved for Sundays and rare
festivals. Then mounting his horse he went trotting over the farm,
reckoning up the value of crops stacked or standing, and of the sheep
and cows pastured on the mountain-side, as if the produce had been his
own, not the farmer's.

His presence cast a temporary gloom over the family. He was regarded as
a bird of ill-omen.

But the cloud speedily dispersed, and the building went merrily on. By
the beginning of October the rafters were on, and William had begun to
thatch it in, and was considering the desirability of re-thatching the
whole house, when their plans had a sudden check before Martinmas.

William, mounted on a ladder, was taking a bundle of fresh straw from
his young labourer, when a red-faced man, whom he seemed to remember
unpleasantly, came boldly over the stile, took a folded paper from his
greasy pocket, and demanded insolently to see 'Jane Edwards, the tenant
at will.'

He was the truculent official messenger of Mr. Pryse, and the paper he
thrust into the widow's trembling hand was a formal 'notice of
ejectment' from the farm!

The skinny hand of Mr. Pryse had closed upon the family with a vice-like
grip.




CHAPTER XIX.

WITH GRANDFATHER'S GOLD.


Had the paper handed to Mrs. Edwards contained a burning fuse to set the
whole homestead ablaze and lay it in ashes, it could scarcely have
created greater consternation.

The grin on the bearer's face and his mother's shriek of dismay brought
William down from his ladder in haste, and sent the lad John Llwyd off
at racing speed to carry the alarm of unknown calamity to the rest.

One by one came Rhys, Davy, and Jonet rushing into the house, to find
their mother, with her apron thrown over her head, rocking herself to
and fro on the old grandfather's armchair, wringing her hands and
moaning in the extremity of distress, that to them seemed inexplicable.

'Oh that I should be living to see this day! Oh that things should ever
be coming to this pass! Sure to goodness it will be the death of me!'

William, by her side, was endeavouring to master the legal jargon of a
document in his hands; while Ales, with arms and apron wet from the
washtub, was bending over her mistress, and doing her rough best to
check the outburst of grief after her own pithy fashion.

'Name o' goodness, Jane Edwards, you do be taking on as if Mr. Pryse was
God Almighty! Sure the battle's not lost before it do be fought. 'Deed,
you couldn't fret worse if Rhys had been carried off like my Evan. Look
to God, mistress; His breath can shrivel up Mr. Pryse like a leaf in an
east wind.'

But the shock was too new for immediate consolation. Philosophy is no
plaister for a raw wound.

Meanwhile William had tossed the 'notice' across the table to Rhys, with
the remark, on which he set his strong, white teeth, 'The skinny old
kite has whetted his beak, and do be thinking to tear us with his
talons; but, if I don't be cutting his claws for him before the year
runs out, my name's not William Edwards.'

'The best way to do that would be to find the lease,' put in Davy. 'I
wonder where grandfather did be hiding it?'

'I'll find it out, if I pull the old house down, stone by stone,' cried
William passionately; adding in another tone, 'Look you here, mother,
crying will not be mending a broken egg. Let us show the old wretch a
bold front, and who knows but God may help us to find the lease and keep
the farm in spite of him. But, if not, in twelve months' time _I_ may be
making a home for you, farm or no farm.'

Rhys alone had not spoken. Jonet had crept up to her mother, and,
kneeling by her side, whispered comforting words, whilst tears ran down
her own cheeks.

Rhys dashed the paper down on the floor and strode out, a suppressed cry
of bitter anguish bursting from him. He could not ask Cate to marry now,
with ruin hanging over them! He almost reeled against the doorway of the
newly-erected addition, and groaned aloud. He felt as if the blow was
directed against him--him above all.

'I did be so happy,' he murmured, 'and now--Oh, Cate, dear Cate, how can
I be breaking the terrible news to you!'

Davy had followed Rhys.

''Deed, I will be for telling Cate, if it will be saving you pain,' he
suggested quietly. 'Perhaps she may be taking it best from me.'

'Sure, Davy, you was always a good fellow,' was all the assent of Rhys.
But without turning round he stretched out his broad brown hand to meet
the warm clasp of Davy, who, in another minute, was on his way steadily
downhill.

Probably both brothers anticipated hot-tempered tantrums from Cate
Griffiths at the sudden change of her matrimonial prospects. But for
once it was the mother, and not the girl, who flew into a rage at what
she regarded as the final defeat of long-laid schemes.

For a moment Cate seemed dazed. 'Poor Rhys!' was all she said; 'he will
need some one to comfort him, and your mother too.'

Ten minutes later Rhys, leaning stupidly against the door-frame where
Davy had left him, felt a pair of warm arms steal round his neck, and a
loving voice say, 'Poor Rhys! What do it matter? There do be other farms
to be had. We shall not lose each other if we do be waiting. You have
got a lease _somewhere_ that shall upset old Pryse. And look you, Rhys,
neither Pryse nor his lordship have leases of their lives. He may not
live to turn you out. Do not be disheartened. Trust God, do your duty,
and leave the rest to Him!'

Poor Rhys! The very first words of sympathy had sunk into his soul. He
had never known Cate so loving in all his life. She had been wayward,
teasing, and tantalising, but never thus. His trial sank to nothing in
the new discovery. He clasped her close, and took courage. Half his fear
had been to lose her.

A loud summons from Ales recalled Rhys to neglected duties, and
barefooted Cate sped homewards to have a sharp-tongued contest with her
mother, who renewed an old cry that 'Cate needn't be spoiling her market
for Rhys Edwards, whatever.'

The news spread rapidly that Mrs. Edwards had notice to quit the farm
next Michaelmas, and commiseration was general.

But when Jane Edwards, supported by Rhys and Owen Griffith, walked into
Mr. Pryse's apartment at the inn on the 9th of October, Caerphilly Fair
Day, neither she nor Rhys made any allusion to the notice received or
looked in any way daunted.

She put down her money, and asked for her receipt.

The agent eyed her curiously, but in the face of two witnesses he
required to guard his words.

As Mrs. Edwards examined carefully the receipt he gave, he remarked,
with his sinister smile--

'His lordship requires you to pay due regard to the ejectment notice
served upon you. He cannot permit _tenants at will_ to build on his land
without express permission.'

'_If_ his lordship do be knowing anything of that ejectment notice, he
will know that it be just so much waste paper. Good-day, sir.'

He opened his eyes wide for once, and stared at her, but without another
word Mrs. Edwards left the room, followed by Rhys and Griffith, who had
previously paid his rent.

'You touched him there,' said they both in a breath, when clear of the
inn.

They would have been sure of it had they seen him start from his seat
and grasp the arms of his chair, exclaiming, as he sank back again--

'Confound the woman! What did she mean? Is the lease found? And what
meant her innuendo anent his lordship's knowledge. They cannot
have--but--no, no!' And there he sat biting his long nails in
perplexity, oblivious of frequent knocks at the door, or tenants waiting
in the passage for their turn.

No, the lease had not been found, but something else had, from which
Mrs. Edwards derived her courage.

In the first outpouring of her indignation she had forbidden William to
proceed with his thatching. But he was equally persistent.

'What, mother!' he cried hotly, 'leave that bit of a place unroofed to
be telling old Pryse that we be frightened by his dirty paper? Not I.
And it's my belief his lordship does not know one word about it,
whatever.'

The words dropped from his lips like an inspiration. His mother caught
at them.

William, taking the bit between his teeth, was up his ladder, with John
Llwyd in attendance, before she had fully mastered the probabilities of
the case.

It was not a long business, for considering the state of affairs he was
not so foolhardy as to re-roof the whole farm. But to make a neat job of
it he had to clear away the worn and jagged edges of the old thatch to
make an even joining.

As he did so, and created a gap, something fell down inside the kitchen
with a thud and a rattle.

'Name o' goodness, what's that?' cried Ales from the fireplace, almost
losing her hold of the iron pot she was hanging on the hook. 'Do you be
going to bring the house about our ears?'

Another moment she sent up a scream, 'It's found! It's found! Thank
God!'

But before she could lay hands upon the prize William was in the house,
and had picked up a small oak box covered with dust and mould.

The scream of Ales brought Mrs. Edwards in from the farmyard with an
apron full of eggs that fell with a smash to the floor.

What mattered the eggs? The sight of that curious old box drove eggs out
of mind!

'Oh, goodness, Willem! That was your grandfather's box! Many a hunt your
poor dear father did have for that box. Open it, quick!'

'It's locked, mother. I cannot force the hasp, it do fit so tight.'

'Ah, yes, I do forget. I do have kept the key all these years. Here,
here, do make haste!'

How her fingers trembled as she brought from her deep pocket the big key
of the coffer, and the tiny one so well preserved for--this.

A folded paper, and a multitude of coins!

John Llwyd peeping in at the door, roughly driven off by Ales, like
another winged-footed Mercury, flew over field and fallow, echoing her
cry, 'It's found! It's found!'

Before the paper could be read, or the coins counted, there were other
echoes besides William's to the mother's pious 'Thanks be to God!'

The paper was a _will_, duly signed and witnessed, by which William
David Edwards bequeathed to his son William, and to his eldest son Rhys
after him, the lease of the farm, and all property in the land held
under that lease, with whatever stock and crops might be thereon at his
decease. And further left whatever moneys might be found along with that
will for the use of that son, William, should necessity arise, but laid
a charge upon him not to diminish but to add to the store, to be divided
between David and any future children born to the said William and Jane
Edwards, in order to help them also to make a start in life.

What a shout went up when the '_lease_' was named! It became no longer a
disputed fact. Here was legal proof that might serve them in good stead
if the lease itself could not be found. No doubt the careful
grandfather--who had died suddenly in a fit--had secreted that as well
as the will just come to light. That might turn up any day.

Hope was in the ascendant. And now for the coins. Some--the five-pound
and two-pound pieces of William and Mary--were unknown to the young men,
though coined during the manhood of the hoarder; but the remainder,
guineas and half-guineas from the mints alike of William and Queen Anne,
had not yet dropped out of circulation, if seldom seen. Except four
tarnished crown pieces, there was no silver.

It was a golden inheritance to feast their eyes upon. In all one hundred
and forty-five pounds. Such a store had never met their sight before.

Yet, with the new possession came the dread of robbers. Ales counselled
silence.

''Deed, and it's best the teeth guard the tongue. It be a fool's trick
to show the old fox the hen's nest. Him as could steal my Evan might lay
his claws on your gold.'

It was good advice, and wisely followed.

John Llwyd had seen a paper unfolded, but no gold; so what he had to
tell did not count for much to hearers unconcerned.

But, coupled with the demeanour of Mrs. Edwards and her son, it put Mr.
Pryse on the tenter-hooks of uncertainty.

The thatching was completed, but no other little secret hiding-place was
found, and discovery ended there.

It was the season for the general repair of fences and dry walls, and
William was kept busy.

Winter was wearing away when, through his friend Thomas Williams,
another stroke of good fortune came to him.

Though I have called the latter a carpenter, the word must be taken in
its broadest significance; he was also a joiner, and he aspired to be a
millwright. In the days when he served his long apprenticeship, a man
was expected to master his craft in all its details and branches, and to
bring his mind to bear upon it, if he had one. He was older than his
friend, and the very nature of his occupation had enlarged the circle
under his observation.

Unknown to any but William Edwards, his attic was stored with models of
millwheels and machinery in various stages, at which he wrought when his
workshop was closed.

One morning, whilst February's snow yet lay upon the ground, a
substantial miller named Owen Wynn, whose old mill threatened to topple
over into the stream, stopped his horse at the carpenter's door, and
asked abruptly 'if that was one of the buildings a young man named
Edwards had put up.'

Being answered in the affirmative, he asked permission to look over the
place, adding--

'Sure, I have heard he is the best mason that ever put stone together in
these parts, and I would like to be seeing for myself, whatever.'

Nothing loth, Thomas led the stranger over the whole premises (small, as
_we_ should think), indicating the peculiar points of the builder's
excellence.

'Yes, yes,' said he, 'I observe,' and straightway marched up the attic
stairs uninvited.

The models arrested his attention. 'Hah, sure! you are a millwright, are
you? Are those improvements?'

Thomas Williams modestly 'thought they were.'

'Then you and this Edwards could build a substantial mill between you?'

'Without a doubt, whatever.'

'Is the mason at hand?'

''Deed, my apprentice do be gone for him.' The prescient young fellow
had already scented business.

Sturdy and self-reliant as William might be, and older than his years,
yet there could be no mistaking eighteen for thirty.

The miller started when he approached, his apron on, his hammer in his
hand. He thought him extremely young to have obtained such repute.

However, before they separated, the two had been commissioned to build
his water-mill and house, and a time appointed to find a suitable spot.

They were both conscious that it _was an undertaking_--with William a
great one. They felt as if the making or marring of their lives was in
their hands. But they were not daunted.

'If difficulties arise we must surmount them,' said William resolutely,
before his plans were drawn. 'As I cannot get books I can read, I must
be studying the castle again.'

There were no Welsh books of any technical value to him; English he was
unable to read. Fortunately for him, the walls and towers and arches of
Caerphilly Castle had been as the leaves of an open and intelligible
book, a work on ancient masonry no printed volume could surpass.

He had need to study it well now, to learn the secret of the arch, and
how to construct a tunnel to bear away the watery overflow from the
mill-wheel.

Learn it the young mason did, and that effectually.

Hard at work were they and their men all through the summer months, the
builders with stone and wood, and ere the frosts of autumn came to lay a
destructive finger on the mortar, there was a goodly mill by the side of
the river, storey rising above storey, and the tunnelled waterway firm
and compact, only some woodwork and the flagstone roof to be added.

It had been a period of great anxiety to both young men, for besides the
risks attending all experimental work, Edwards was uneasy respecting his
mother's possession of the farm, and Thomas Williams had resolved to
seek Jonet for a wife if their work was a success.

Of any portion he might expect with her he knew nothing.

The corn had ripened for the sickle, but no lease had yet been found.
September shone upon the land, and the case became urgent.

One evening, when the masons had laid by their tools for the night, the
good vicar had a visitor. William Edwards desired to see the Rev. John
Smith most particularly.

[Illustration: HE FOUND MR. MORRIS SEATED AT THE TABLE AS WELL AS THE
VICAR.--_See page 245._]

To his surprise, when he was ushered into the low-ceiled parlour, he
found Mr. Morris seated at the table as well as the vicar, evidently
examining a number of geological specimens by the light of a couple of
candles.

William had met Mr. Morris several times of late chipping at rocks with
a hammer, but did not expect to meet with him there, and could have
dispensed with his presence.

'Well, Edwards, what is your business?' asked the vicar after the first
salutations. 'You need not hesitate to speak out; Mr. Morris is as much
your friend as I am. What is it? Anything concerning the fine mill you
are erecting?'

'No, sir, it do be concerning the farm--and Mr. Pryse.'

The gentlemen exchanged glances across the table. The change in
William's frank voice and manner had not been lost on them.

William laid his grandfather's will open before the vicar.

'We did be finding that last autumn hid in a small box under the thatch,
sir.'

'You did not find the missing lease along with it, did you?'

'No, sir. And we cannot be finding it, high or low. But you will see,
sir, the lease be named here more than once.' And drawing closer to the
vicar he pointed with his finger.

'Yes, I perceive. Well, that certainly establishes the fact that you
_had_ a lease.'

'Sure, indeed, sir. But do you be thinking it would serve instead of the
real lease to stop Mr. Pryse from turning us out of the farm?'
questioned William, with a very anxious face.

'Um--a--um--a--well, I am not so sure about that. We might get an
opinion if there was a lawyer about, not under Pryse's finger and thumb.
You must know, Morris,' said the vicar, turning to his friend, 'this
young fellow's father gave mortal offence to Pryse by a blunt opinion
that he was overreaching. He has owed the family a grudge ever since,
and has done all in his power to oust the widow from her holding. You
will remember the talk there was, six years ago, about the disappearance
of a young man from Cardiff, who was supposed to have gone off in the
mysterious _Osprey_ with money, not his own--some people said was
"_carried_ off" perforce. Anyway, that was the farm-servant of Mrs.
Edwards, who was about to be married--for I read out the banns--and he
had with him both his own savings and the money to pay the widow's
half-year's rent. He was seen to enter Mr. Pryse's office. He ordered
and bought things to set up farming, and _paid_ for some. In three
weeks' time Mr. Pryse made a seizure on the farm for unpaid rent,
declaring the man a defaulter. Fortunately, Mrs. Edwards had the means
to meet his demands. Since then he has twice raised the rent, insisting
that the widow is only a tenant at will, and last Martinmas served her
with a notice of ejectment to come in force this present month,
insisting that no lease exists. It so happens that both the father and
grandfather died too suddenly to make any disclosures or arrangements.
Thus the lease is missing, and this will has only just come to light.
Look it over, and say what you think.'

'Take a seat, William. I did not observe that you were standing all this
while,' he added.

Mr. Morris shook his head as he folded up and returned the document. 'To
any unprejudiced person this settles all doubt that a lease exists, and
the duplicate must be in the possession of his lordship or his agent.
But it does not specify the terms or the date of the lease, and _there_
Mr. Pryse has the advantage. He may know of some clause you have
infringed.'

William sighed heavily. 'Then there will be no hope for us. It will
break poor mother's heart, in truth it will. We don't believe his
lordship knows a word. If I could but get to see him. But there, Mr.
Pryse would stop that!' and he rose to depart.

'Stay, stay!' cried Mr. Morris; 'maybe I can help you at this pinch.
Find me pen, ink, and paper, Mr. Smith.'

William looked on in bewilderment whilst the quill of Mr. Morris went
squeaking across the paper, or he nibbled the feather end of the pen in
a pause for thought, or for an answer to a question.

After a time, which to William appeared hours, he threw the paper across
the table to the vicar.

'There,' said he, 'is a brief statement of the case, as detailed to me.
If you find it correct, pray both of you affix your signatures. It shall
be my care _that_ reaches his lordship's own hand, though he is now at
Court, and time is short. If you leave the will in our good vicar's
charge, I will make a fair copy and enclose it, along with some private
intelligence of my own concerning Mr. Pryse. Good-night, young man. Tell
your mother not to be downhearted.'




CHAPTER XX.

IN THE NICK OF TIME.


'Name o' goodness, what be keeping Willem out so late?' said his mother,
peering out into the night. 'I do hope he have not been stopping at the
inn again, and him with that will in his pocket. He do be getting very
unsteady since he has been having those big places to build.'

''Deed, his sudden rise do be turning his head. He may have as sudden a
fall one of these days,' was the commentary of Rhys.

But when William came in half an hour later, as steady and sober as his
brothers, and explained satisfactorily how he chanced to be so very
late, there was nothing but the voice of gratitude to be heard. He had
left the vicarage almost choked by his own inarticulate thanks.

'It was quite providential that Mr. Morris did be staying at the
vicarage,' said Mrs. Edwards. 'He do be a great man, sure, and kind.'

'Yes, yes, and it was providential that _I_ went to consult the vicar,
instead of Rhys. Mr. Morris would be knowing nothing of _him_,
whatever,' added William, rather proudly.

It was true that his uncommon success was making him somewhat
self-sufficient. But so Rhys had been, with less reason.

The weeks crept slowly on one after another.

At the new mill, mason and millwright congratulated each other on
hazardous difficulties overcome. The roof was on to the last flag. The
arched tunnel was strong and firm. The machinery worked well, and the
wheel went merrily round. When the painters cleared away their paint
pots, they could hand the key to the miller in triumph.

At the farm, hope had given way to doubt, and doubt was sinking into
despair. The prayer of faith was timid and wavering. Only another day
remained before the dreaded 9th of October, and as yet nothing had been
heard either from Mr. Morris or the vicar, or from his lordship.
Impending evil took the gloss off William's satisfaction.

The morning of Tuesday the 8th broke dull, dreary, and depressing, with
a heavy mist on the mountain and in the valley, which, towards eight
o'clock, resolved itself into a drizzling rain, that made the cattle
hang their heads and the sheep huddle together for mutual comfort.

In view of contingencies, the farm stock had been reduced by sale below
ordinary limits, and well-disposed neighbours had offered temporary
houseroom and shelter amongst them for both family and anything movable.
Thomas Williams cleared out his large attic for their accommodation, and
Robert Jones promised to keep his team in readiness to remove household
goods or newly-gathered crops at a moment's notice.

Nothing was being done on the farm but what common care for the living,
biped and quadruped, rendered necessary. But a general ransack of house
and barns was going on for the discovery of the missing lease, and
everything was topsy-turvy. Never had the storeroom had such a turn-out
for years. Red-eyed Jonet and Cate ripped open beds and pillows, turned
over sacks, dived among fleeces. For the twentieth time Mrs. Edwards
emptied the great oak chest, and turned over the leaves of the large old
Bible, her face grey and set like a rock.

Ales alone bore a cheerful countenance, and baked the week's bread as in
the ordinary course.

'Look you, Jane Edwards,' she said, 'it's no use fretting and fuming.
What God wills we must bear. But there's no need to be putting the
burden on one's own back before He bids one take it up.'

Mrs. Edwards sighed heavily. 'Ah, yes, Ales, true it is; but a good
servant need never seek good service. We may seek far for a good farm.'

'You don't be turned off this yet. And it's my firm belief you will be
keeping the farm in spite of old Pryse. God's finger is stronger than
man's arm. You wait and be patient. I've not been dreaming of Evan night
after night for nothing. He seems to say, "I'm coming, I'm coming;" and
I feel as if God was bringing him back, look you. I do!'

'Ah, poor, foolish Ales! your longings do create your dreams. Evan be as
far to seek as our lease.'

'May be so, and may be not. I do be feeling as if he was as near and as
warm almost as the loaf just baked, look you. And I feel, I feel'--

'You do _look_ half out of your mind, Ales,' said Mrs. Edwards, in grave
rebuke, rising from her hopeless quest and locking the coffer again.
'This be no time to talk of foolish dreams.'

'Mother,' called Jonet from the bedroom they were searching, 'there be a
strange man with a bundle on a stick coming over the stile, and he's
dripping wet.'

Ales screamed, darted out by the open door, and before Mrs. Edwards
could follow she was clasped in the arms of a rough-looking fellow, and
crying out, 'I knew, I knew! Thank God!' In another moment she was
sobbing and laughing hysterically on his breast in the reaction of her
strange excitement.

'Name o' goodness, that never do be you, Evan?' burst from Mrs. Edwards
in unmitigated amazement.

[Illustration: LONG-LOST EVAN HAD COME BACK.--_See page 252._]

'Ay, ay, it's me for certain,' was answered cheerily, as the sturdy,
unshaved man brushed past her, carrying his limp sweetheart into the
kitchen and grandfather's stiff-backed chair, heedless of the wet trail
he left upon the floor.

Picture the excitement. Strong-minded Ales in hysterics! Jonet and Cate
rushing about wildly, and shouting out that long-lost Evan had come
back! William and Rhys hurrying in, astonished and delighted, followed
by Davy, for once in a hurry; and Evan, loth to release Ales, puzzled
to find hands for them all to shake at once, and equally puzzled how to
compose Ales, who is sobbing and laughing by turns.

Housewifely instinct, or a peculiar fume in her nostrils, acts as a
restorative. 'The bread's burning,' she gasps and Cate presses forward
to the rescue of the scorching loaves, forgotten in the confusion and
excitement.

Then follows a string of questions, huddled one upon another, but before
any one can be answered, Mrs. Edwards says dolefully, 'Ah, Evan, we be
thankful to see you back, but you have come on a sad day for all that.'

'Have I? Then, 'deed, it had nearly been a sadder for in coming across
the ford, I either mistook my depth, or the water is rising, for it came
up to my waistband, and nearly carried me off my feet. But I'm not to be
drowned, that's clear, till I've settled with that old rogue Pryse,' he
says, with an emphasis and a look that are in themselves anathemas.

'Ah, I told you so,' cries Ales. 'Woe to the man that makes a hundred
sad!' but in the midst of an affirmative chorus comes an interruption in
the shape of the old brown house-dog, wagging his tail and dropping a
big bundle wrapped in sailcloth at the feet of Evan, then jumping up to
ask for recognition and thanks.

It is then seen that Evan is standing in a pool of water, whereupon Mrs.
Edwards orders him off to change his wet clothes for the dry ones in his
bundle, whilst she and the other women bestir themselves to set the
dinner on the table, Ales making all sorts of blunders in the process.

It is by no means a common dinner on a Welsh farm table at that period,
although it only comprises pork, potatoes, and greens, boiled in the
same pot with the dough dumplings. Mrs. Edwards marks it out reverently
as they take their seats.

'Let us be thanking Almighty God that the good food provided for our
last dinner under this roof should have become, by His blessing, a
thanksgiving feast; for the one supposed dead do be alive again, the one
lost do be found.'

The general 'Amen' was peculiarly solemn, and it occurred to Evan that
for a thanksgiving there was more of sorrow than gladness.

Then the first greeting of Mrs. Edwards recurred to him, coupled with
the remark about a 'last dinner'; and though the savour was appetising,
and his fast had been long, he could not have touched a morsel until his
doubts were resolved. He put his question, and was speedily answered by
more than one voice--

'Oh, Evan, we cannot find our lease, and Mr. Pryse be going to drive us
off the farm to-morrow.'

It was his turn to look solemn. ''Deed, and that do be bad. You do have
a lease, sure to goodness?'

'Oh yes. Willem found grandfather's will, and the lease do be left to
Rhys; but no lease can we be finding anywhere.'

'Where have you been looking?'

All sorts of likely and unlikely places were named.

'My first master kept his lease in the Bible. Did you look there?'

'Indeed, yes, Evan,' came from Mrs. Edwards, with a disheartened sigh;
'I turned over every leaf.'

'Oh, I do mean under the old cloth cover. He kept his there.'

A moment of breathless astonishment--a general rise from the table!

Mrs. Edwards was down on her knees unlocking the coffer.

In another minute the Bible was out; the stout cloth cover ripped off.
There lay the parchment, flat and clean, as when laid there years upon
years before by hands now in the clasp of death.

'_Thank God!_' cried Mrs. Edwards, still upon her knees. 'My children,
the finger of God is in this. Our search did be vain till He did send
His own messenger to point it out. As Ales did say, God's finger _is_
stronger than man's arm; strong to save. Let us once more thank Him.'

The relief had been overpowering. The thanksgiving was strong and deep.
The reaction was too great almost for speech. The dinner, nearly cold,
was eaten in silence; but it was the silence of hopefulness, not
despair.

It was followed by a clattering and chattering of loosened tongues,
guesses at Mr. Pryse's consternation on the morrow, and questionings of
Evan's disappearance and adventures, which we may leave that morrow to
answer.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mean though he was through every fibre of his being, Mr. Pryse was
lavish in regard to his own creature comforts. Yet even many of these
he contrived to obtain gratuitously from tenants who loved him little
and feared him much, or from obsequious sea-captains whose cargo was not
altogether coal or iron, captains who had goods to bring ashore without
compliments to Custom House officers. And those were anything but days
of free trade.

He sat at ease between a cosy fire, which cost him nothing, and a round
breakfast-table on which were the remains of chicken, ham, and eggs, all
of which were equally cheap. A fragrant aroma of Mocha coffee yet
lingered around the foreign china cup and saucer and coffee-pot, none of
which had paid duty to England's monarch, any more than the Barcelona
silk handkerchief cast lightly over the knee he was indolently nursing
on the other, whilst he leaned back in his tall chair picking his teeth,
and a smile of uttermost self-content and enjoyment creased the
parchment-like skin into folds under his wicked old eyes.

'Yes,' said he, half aloud to himself; 'out they go to-morrow, stock and
lot! And let them get another farm where they can. Lease, indeed'--and
he chuckled. 'If they could find any lease to show, there would have
been no sending of cows and sheep and grain to market. Ah, yes, I shall
soon pay off my old score to that fellow who drowned himself like a
fool. Yes, and get a higher rent, now that building son of his has
enlarged the homestead.'

The chuckle had not died out of his skinny throat when the door opened,
and he caught his breath, for a special messenger from his lordship,
booted and spurred, like one who rides in haste, entered unannounced,
and with the simple remark that he 'had rather a rough passage across
the Severn from Bristol that morning, and found the air raw and cold,'
presented a sealed packet, marked 'Immediate and important.'

Had he said he crossed in a Revenue cutter, Mr. Pryse might not so
readily have taken the hint thrown out.

As it was, he apologised for the coldness of the breakfast, and from a
private cabinet produced a bottle of genuine Hollands--which had never
gone through a Custom House--and, setting them before his unexpected
visitor, invited him to help himself.

'I trust his lordship is well?' he said blandly, but quite as a matter
of course.

'No; he was dangerously ill when I left,' came from the courier, with
startling bluntness.

What? His easy-going master ill! perhaps dying! Mr. Pryse turned ashen
grey. 'You don't say so!' he ejaculated with a gasp, his fingers
trembling, as he at last unfolded the despatch and began to read, hardly
conscious that the man, smacking his lips over the fiery Hollands, had
been watching him all along with keen, observant eyes.

With all Mr. Pryse's self-command the paper rattled in his fingers as he
read. It was not a lengthy epistle, and only the signature was his
lordship's; the letter was from his son and heir. Its sole purport was
to prevent injustice, as the act of a dying man.

In stern and peremptory words it forbade Simon Pryse to harass or
disturb the Widow Edwards in her holding, since he must know it was
leased for three lives, and would not fall in until the demise of
William Edwards' eldest son, then living. Moreover, he was commanded to
refund, from his own purse, all excess rent he had extorted from the
widow, _yet not included in his accounts_. And he was required to
furnish a true and just statement of all the moneys in his hands and all
his dealings and transactions in his lordship's name, not omitting the
share he was said to have taken in the abduction of one Evan Evans,
seven years prior to that date.

'It shall be done,' said Mr. Pryse hoarsely, as the messenger rose to
depart, fully satisfied with the result of his observations.

'Yes, it _shall_ be done!' cried the infuriated agent, when the man was
gone, springing to his feet with a tremendous oath. 'But not as his
lordship or his lordship's heir proposes. Shall I forego the revenge I
have nursed for years, when a few hours will bring the hated tribe
within my grip? No; I will set my feet upon their necks if I die for
it!' and another fierce anathema parted those thin lips of his.

All on a sudden he stopped short, and bit his long nails viciously. 'Has
some one turned traitor?' he murmured between set teeth. 'Those poor
farming idiots could not get a letter to his lordship's hand. No matter.
The bolt has fallen sooner than I expected, but trust me to be taken
unprepared. It has fallen in the nick of time. In another hour the
_Cambria_ would have sailed.'

Upstairs, three steps at a time like a boy, he ran, exulting in his own
crafty schemes for outwitting justice; drew his blue and white check
curtain quite across his bedroom window--a preconcerted signal to the
_Cambria's_ skipper--changed his kerseymere smalls for his leather
riding breeches, and was downstairs in his private office as usual, yet
not as usual. He was on his knees before his strong box and his golden
god.

In his guilty knowledge and his craftiness, he had years before prepared
for flight on emergency. He had lodged a portion of his filchings in
Wood's Gloucester Bank, under a fictitious name. Yet as there was no
other provincial bank at that time in all England and Wales, and no bank
notes under L20 value, exchange was not easy. Rents, etc., were paid in
specie. Specie also was transmitted to his lordship under strict guard.
Whenever an opportunity occurred, the agent converted coin into notes,
and packed them in the waistband of his leather breeches. Still, coin
had accumulated in his strong box, always packed close, and secured with
triple locks, ready for removal on short notice, though its weight
belied its bulk.

The signal brought the skipper. There was already a tacit understanding
between the worthy pair, and their conference was brief. Arrangements
were made for the _Cambria_ to drop down the river with the evening
tide, and lay to outside in the bay. Fain would the skipper have Mr.
Pryse go aboard with his strong box, and make all sail at once.

No, no; he was not willing to forego his revenge or the prospect of
adding a succession of rents to his ill-gotten gains; so a four-oared
boat was to meet him at Taff's Well landing-place up the river on the
morrow, and await his coming--ay, even until midnight.

His impish friends, Avarice and Malice, were more potent advisers than
the wary skipper; so, with a shrug of the shoulders, he withdrew, and
obeyed.

'That's a heavy load you've got, messmates,' called a sailor to the two
others conveying to the schooner the strong box, covered with tarpaulin,
as if to protect it from the rain. But they merely answered, 'Ay, ay,'
and declined assistance.

The afternoon was then far spent, but two horses stood at the door, and
in a few minutes Mr. Pryse, booted and spurred, and cased in a long
riding-coat, was in the saddle, the flaps of his three-cornered hat let
down, as was commonly the case in wet weather, so as to convert it into
a broad-brimmed slouch, a pair of saddle-bags slung before him, likewise
holsters, fitted with pistols, carefully loaded.

He trotted away from the door he was never to see again, with a lie on
his lips to his housekeeper, and, followed by his less
elaborately-accoutred attendant, took the new Merthyr Tydvil Road, which
not only ran parallel with the river in a direct line wherever
practicable, but avoided the long detour by Caerphilly, where no rents
would be paid until the Martinmas Fair.

He had rents, and more than rents, to collect as he stopped at wayside
houses, or so-called inns, off and on the direct road, and was not to be
denied, though a day before due. So he managed to pocket some heavy cash
before, at a late hour, he stopped for the night under the shadow of
cliff-seated Castel Coch, to dry his drenched overcoat, eat a hearty
supper, and retire to _rest_, leaving orders that he was to be in the
saddle by daybreak in the morning.

He was in a desperate hurry to transact his pleasant bit of business
with Mrs. Edwards, but could not forbear grasping at all the coin he
could by the way, never thinking that the overreaching hand is apt to
grasp at shadows.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE FINGER OF GOD.


The heavy rain had ceased in the night. The sky was clear, the eaves and
trees had forgotten to drip, the mist was lifting from the mountain-top
and from the surcharged river, when, after a succession of profitable
calls, between nine and ten o'clock in the morning, master and man rode
up the rugged ascent to Brookside Farm, and, dismounting, the former
walked into the house with insolent assumption, and, finding only Mrs.
Edwards there, demanded rudely--

'Is the half-year's rent ready?' Of course, that was his first care.

'There do be no rent owing, sir.'

'What do you mean, woman?'

'I mean that you have been paid, and overpaid, and I do not be going to
pay you one brass farthing.'

He grew livid, set his teeth, and looked as if he would have struck her
to the ground.

'We'll see about that. You had due notice to quit. You have stayed on
the farm in defiance of the law, and now, by'--(and he swore a great
oath)--'you shall turn out without stick or stock. Morgan,' over his
shoulder to the man, 'call up the other men. We will soon see who is
master here. I seize in his lordship's name.'

'And _I_ forbid in his lordship's name,' said Mr. Morris, whose shadow
in the doorway had been mistaken for the man Morgan's.

Mr. Pryse recoiled. Mr. Morris was no stranger to him; and no friend of
his, he well knew. What brought him there, or the vicar, close at his
heels?

'By what right do _you_ presume to interfere?' he asked boldly.

'By _this_, sir,' unfolding a letter. 'I presume you know his lordship's
hand and seal. _You_ were not the only one for whom the courier had a
despatch yesterday.'

Mr. Pryse seemed to shrink within his clothes. A greenish hue overspread
the yellow of his skin. A clammy dew burst out upon his forehead. Had he
spurned the skipper's sage advice only to come here for this? It was
maddening to think of.

He attempted to brazen it out, as a last resource.

'I am acting in his lordship's interest, sir. He has been shamelessly
misinformed. These people have not paid more than a fair rental. And
they never had a lease.'

'What do you be calling _that_, sir?' And Rhys pressing to the front,
held up the lease--at a safe distance, for Mr. Pryse appeared ready to
spring upon it like a wild cat.

'And now, sir,' said Mr. Morris sternly, 'you will have to disgorge.
Those are his lordship's orders. You see we hold a quittance for half a
year's rent. Evan, bring forward the receipt.'

Had a ghost risen from the grave to confront him, Mr. Pryse could not
have looked more aghast or terror-stricken, when Evan stepped from
behind into the light, with the faded receipt in his hand.

Baffled, defeated, confronted, as it were, by the dead.

Mr. Pryse shrieked aloud, fell on his knees, covering his eyes with his
quivering hands.

'You here?--_you?_ I fancied you had gone down with the _Osprey_.'

'You hear him, gentlemen? You hear him? He do be owning his share in
kidnapping me! No, you smuggling old rogue, when the _Osprey_ went all
to pieces on the rocks at the Land's End with its drunken crew and
cargo--I, yes indeed _I_, gentlemen, who had been dragged on board bound
like a thief--I did be the only one saved. I had been sent up aloft to
punish me because I would not join the wicked crew, and when the mast
did go overboard, I held on for my very life. I did be picked up the
next day by an outward-bound East Indiaman, when there was little life
left in me. But I wasn't to be drowned till I'd settled scores with this
old villain here, that did send me adrift with rogues like himself, and
to rob the widow blackened my honest name.

'No, Mr. Pryse, though I've been sailing the seas all these sorrowful
years in one craft or other, cuffed, kicked, half-starved, used worse
than a dog, and never able to make my way back to my sweetheart or
home, if it had not been for another shipwreck I'd never have been here
now. A Liverpool trader took me and two shipmates off a raft in the
middle of the ocean, when we was half-mad with hunger and thirst, and
the good captain, God bless him, sent me on shore at Fishguard, to make
my way home to my sweetheart as quick as I could. And I didn't have to
beg my way, for I had got money hid under my belt. And I do be thanking
God sirs, for bringing me here in time to confound this wicked old
shivering coward. I do be feeling as if I could shake every bone out of
his ugly skin, but Ales bids me leave him to God and his master.'

''Deed, he deserves kicking from the top of the hill to the bottom,'
thrust in fiery William.

Not a word had the detected steward spoken, but his features and his
lean fingers worked vindictively, as if longing to grasp the speakers'
throats.

All at once he shrieked out--

'That receipt's a forgery, a vile forgery. Look at it, gentlemen. That
paper has never been in salt water. Ugh! How could a common sailor keep
a bit of paper unworn and dry for six years, and through two shipwrecks?
It is absurd.'

Gaining courage from his own sneering suggestion, Mr. Pryse rose to his
feet, little expecting the answer which came from William.

''Deed, no, sirs. Neither our receipt, nor Owen Griffith's here, nor
Evan's own money ever went nearer the sea than old Breint's saddle. He
had made a private pocket under the lining, and there they did be
waiting for him, yes, sure.'

'It's well they did, for those thieves on the _Osprey_ did be stripping
me of all I had,' put in Evan.

And now, Mr. Morris declaring the receipts genuine, insisted on Mr.
Pryse there and then refunding the extra rent extorted year by year from
Mrs. Edwards, giving a quittance up to date on account of the receipt.

But Mr. Pryse had recovered courage--and craft. He began to bluster.
Refused to acknowledge the authority of either Mr. Morris or the vicar.
He was answerable to his lordship. To him only would he render an
account. He would bid them good-morning.

'Well, sir,' said Mr. Morris, 'I cannot enforce his lordship's commands
without legal warrant. But had I known all I have heard since I came
hither, I should have come provided with a warrant for your arrest, Mr.
Pryse. And I warn you the reckoning will come sooner than you expect.'

Much sooner!

He walked out of the farmhouse with head erect and defiant, as if he had
won a victory. He bade Morgan pay his myrmidons and follow; then rode
down hill baffled, but not wholly defeated. He had not disgorged a
penny, had added other rents as he came along to the hoard he was
carrying away. Warrant, indeed! He would soon be beyond reach of
warrants!

'Nay,' he shouted back with a snarl, 'threatened men live long;' but
before he reached the level, some sense of ungratified revenge must have
stung him, for he put spurs to his horse, and dashed on, splashing
through the swollen brook, and turning the corner to the ford--not the
high-road--as if pursued by a troop of demons.

Blinded by his own evil passions, exulting in his escape, yet alarmed by
the sound of hoofs behind him, he spurred his horse to the uncertain
ford in the same hot haste, seeing nothing but his own need to cross.

[Illustration: BLINDED BY PASSION, HE SPURRED HIS HORSE TO THE UNCERTAIN
FORD.--_See page 271._]

His follower heard a shriek, but reached the river's brink only in time
to see a swirling mass of something far down the rain-filled river.

Mr. Pryse had gone to meet the _Cambria's_ boat in other fashion than he
contemplated.

His spurs entangled in the stirrups, his pockets and saddle-bags
weighted with ill-gotten coin, horse and man had gone together.

A Welshman in a coracle[13] called out to the ferryman at Taff's Well
Ferry, and he to the _Cambria's_ men rowing up-stream, and amongst them
they got a panting, struggling, half-dead horse ashore, to find what
_had_ been Mr. Pryse _underneath_, clutching at the turned saddle and
bags with the grip that never relaxes--the grip of death.

Cover him over. Let the Preventive-service men, chasing the other boat,
fight with pistol and cutlass for the possession of the dead, his gold,
and his incriminating papers, whilst the smart Preventive cutter in the
bay boards the short-handed _Cambria_, and tows her confiscated prize
into port, the dead man's strong box included. Little recks the drowned
man what becomes of his hoard. He has gone to his final reckoning with a
Lord he had forgotten, a Lord no man can cheat or deceive.

Intelligence of his retributive death comes to the rejoicing family at
the farm with a sobering shock, but nobody affects to lament. And all
over his lordship's wide domain, oppressed men breathe freer for this
one man's death.

'Man deliberates, but God delivers,' is said with bated breath by more
than sententious Ales, whilst Mrs. Edwards insists that his death is a
judgment for his strictures on her lost husband.

And whilst the unhonoured remains of the fraudulent agent are committed
to the earth, in Cardiff, with no mourner but his housekeeper, the vicar
of Eglwysilan reads out the banns once more for Evan and Ales, and for
Rhys Edwards and Cate Griffiths also.

Great is the bustle of preparation. There is money in possession and
hope in the future.

There is no need to ask for contributions at the 'bidding,' though the
invited guests are many.

The new room William built is being fitted up with somewhat more regard
to health and decency than has been common hitherto. Cate is bringing to
her bridegroom more than had been looked for--dowlas sheets and
blankets, spun and woven under their own cottage roof, and a good flock
bed and pillows from the same source. Then she had not been idle, and if
under-_linen_ was not worn in those days in that humid climate, she had
a fair supply of flannel, and of linsey-woolsey for gowns and aprons,
all of her own spinning. Ay, and she had stockings knitted ready to
assume with her new dignity.

The cottage at Castella has long been occupied by other tenants. Mr.
Morris offers Evan a small farm between Caerphilly and Cardiff, on very
easy terms. The goods he had bought and paid for have been sold, but
fresh are furnished readily; and Robert Jones generously conveys the
long-hoarded household goods of Ales to her new home, without fee or
guerdon, and, with them, a winter store of peat and culm as a wedding
gift.

Both at Owen's cottage and the farm the women are busy as bees, baking
and boiling for the wedding feast, for which Thomas Williams sets up
long plank tables in the meadow that slopes to the foot of the hill, the
break-neck ascent to the farm being a consideration on such an occasion.

For the brides are supposed unwilling to be wed, or their friends to
part with them, and there is racing and chasing to recover the runaway
brides, and mock contests to obtain possession of them, in which the
mountain ponies play their parts well. Then, the brides being captured,
there is the headlong race to the church, which bodes ill to any unwary
pedestrian they may meet. It is a remnant of old barbaric custom not to
be dispensed with, and all the youths and maidens, far and wide, join in
the race. Scarcely less noisy is the return, when the ceremony is over,
and each bride is mounted behind her husband, Rhys and Cate taking the
precedence.

Be sure they bring appetites to the feast, where huge joints of boiled
beef are matched by piles of smoking potatoes and turnips, the
brown-jacketed esculents being as yet dainties to the multitude. Then
there are great pitchers of _cwrw da_ and buttermilk for thirsty
throats. And if there be a deficiency of glass and cutlery, according to
our notions, all is as it should be to the feasters, who are to the
manner born, and not fastidious, and who fling their contributions to
the feast into the earthen bowls with right goodwill.

Something much more important gave grace to the festive occasion, and
that was the presence of a Welsh harper, one of the decaying race of
bards, who sang them songs of Arthur and Llewellyn, and twanged his harp
for lively dances on the greensward when the boards were cleared, and
might be held accountable for more than one match decided that day.
Certainly Thomas Williams obtained Jonet's shy promise to marry him in
the spring if her mother would consent; and even Davy struck up an
acquaintance with the niece of Robert Jones, that was likely to lead to
something more in the end.

It was quite an exceptional gathering, for not a drop of rain fell the
whole day to mar the entertainment, and, short though it was, a good
round frosty moon offered its shining lamp to light the middle-aged
couple and their escort to their new home beyond Caerphilly, and to make
even the crossing of the Taff safe to the contingent from the mountains
beyond. All had 'gone merry as a marriage bell.'

And here my story might be supposed to end; but for my hero--and I count
William Edwards a hero--a new era was about to dawn.

I have indicated that mines of coal and iron were being worked in
Glamorganshire, but that the want of roads and bridges for conveyance
and communication retarded the development of its untold mineral
resources. Then, the hard nature of the coal already dug unfitted it,
except as culm, for household use or smelting purposes in such furnaces
as existed, where the fuel was principally charcoal.

But about this time experiments were being made to test its utility, and
Mr. John Morris, who for years had gone geologising among the mountains,
was one of the first to suggest its feasibility. He had made experiments
on a small scale, but Mr. Pryse had thrown impediments in the way of
smelting on a larger basis in the neighbourhood of Cardiff, where the
river and the sea were close for conveyance if his scheme succeeded.

'It was too near the Castle. His lordship would have no reeking furnaces
so close to his residence. There was no land for sale,' etc. etc.

Mr. Morris was not to be put down by Mr. Pryse. He had applied, not to
the old Viscount, but to his son and heir, who was not hoodwinked by Mr.
Pryse, and cordially seconded the proposal. The old Viscount was even
then on his deathbed. The succession of the new one, shortly after Mr.
Pryse was committed to his narrow cell, left Mr. Morris free to act.

The day before the double wedding he explained his views to William
Edwards, and made to him a proposition.

So it happened that, whilst Rhys and the rest were making merry, William
was half the time lost in thought, and one or other rallied him on his
unsociability, as they considered it.

_He_ was simply considering his ability to undertake the erection of the
smelting furnaces John Morris had in view. He had not much doubt of his
own power to accomplish anything any other man could do, or had done, if
the opportunity to study what had been previously done was afforded him.
But here something was required differing from aught that had gone
before, or with which he was acquainted.

Mr. Morris had given him time for mature deliberation. He had great
faith in the capacity of the self-taught genius, and still more in his
indomitable determination to overcome difficulties.

Yet books he had none that would afford the information he needed. He
had done what he could to supply the defects of his education, thanks to
the vicar. But he was still 'Cymro uniaith,' a Welshman of one language;
and, though the literature of Wales certainly dates back to the twelfth
century, and is said to date back to the sixth, its ancient legends,
ballads, and poems would not instruct him how to build furnaces which
should convert the hard Welsh coal into the smelter's slave.

If there were English books on the subject, he was ignorant, and could
not have read them had such been laid before him.

He was not given to waste his time in unprofitable regrets.

Before any one else was astir he was on the road northward to Merthyr
Tydvil, bent on examining the process of iron-smelting as there carried
on. The name of John Morris procured him ready admission to the works.
But, although they had been in existence for a couple of centuries, and
the ancient forests had been denuded of their giant oaks to supply their
furnaces, they had as yet no furnace that would fuse the ore with coal
alone, and the oak trees were growing scarce.

William came away shaking his head, and muttering as he strode along:
'Sure, if those be their smelting furnaces, there do be one as good at
the Castle. They do be wanting a stronger blast if they employ coal. It
will be a job to construct furnaces that will burn the stone-coal Mr.
Morris be saying gives such great heat with neither flame nor smoke. But
I'm bound to have a try what I can be doing. Sure, I'm not willing to
give in without a try, look you!'

And in this frame of mind he returned home to make calculations and
sketches, and to think out the matter, walking to and fro in front of
the house, with his head bent down and his hands behind him.

'Idling,' his mother called it. Rhys had grown wiser.

''Deed, mother, Willem do be having his "thinks." Best be leaving him
alone.'

'But he do not even be knitting, look you!'

'Never mind, mother _fach_; he do be "studdying," as he do call it. We
work with our hands; Willem do work with his head--yes, yes.'

The following day he was away again, much to his mother's discomfort, as
his silent and wandering mood had always been.

If she had followed, she might have tracked him to his old storehouse of
knowledge, Caerphilly Castle, and far down a crumbling flight of stone
steps to a curious vault below the level of the moat, and, beneath that
marvel of marvels, the reft, overhanging tower.

He had gathered, by inquiry from the vicar and others, that here had
anciently been a furnace for the smelting of metals for coinage and
other purposes; and that it was supposed to have been employed, during a
siege, for melting lead to pour from the battlements upon the besiegers;
and, further, that either the besiegers or some traitor within contrived
to let in a jet of water from the moat upon the molten metal, causing
the terrific explosion which rent the tower from top to bottom, and left
the strongly-built half hanging eleven feet out of the perpendicular, as
a testimony to future ages.

But it was not of battles or sieges William was thinking, unless it
might be his own conflict with a difficulty. He was there to examine the
ancient furnace, with no one to talk or interrupt, and to found his own
theories thereupon.

In a very short time Mr. Morris had his answer.

'Yes, sir, I think I can undertake your work.'

It was a bold undertaking for a farmer's son, self-taught, and only
twenty years of age.

FOOTNOTE:

[13] An oval wicker boat covered with hide, with only a single seat, as
used by the ancient Britons, and by the Welsh far into the present
century.




CHAPTER XXII.

A BLIND INSTRUCTOR.


Mrs. Edwards did not readily reconcile herself to the loss of her
faithful serving-maid Ales. Still less readily to the substitution of
Cate, for, now that she was the wife of Rhys, she took another footing
on the floor than when she was Cate Griffith, and she allowed no one to
forget that the farm was left to Rhys by his grandfather's will, and,
therefore, he was master, the implication being that she was mistress.

Hitherto Mrs. Edwards had been head and front of everything. As she had
told Mr. Pryse, '_she_ was the farmer.' It was for her to dictate, for
others to obey.

Now, as she had foreseen, the marriage of Rhys had subverted all that.
Not that Rhys himself had changed his manner towards his mother, but he
had long held himself competent to manage the farm without guidance; and
when there was no capable Ales at hand to anticipate her wishes, and
even the orders she gave to her own daughter Jonet were apt to be
disputed and reversed by the young wife, she felt much like a queen
deposed. She did not, however, surrender her sceptre willingly, but
pursued her own course as of old. As little was Jonet disposed to take
orders from her sister-in-law.

The consequent result was confusion, mismanagement, and altercation,
Cate's voice having suddenly grown shrill and loud.

Of course Rhys took the part of his wife--though dubiously--whilst
William and Davy enlisted on the side of the mother or Jonet; so that,
although the oppressor was no more, and the sun of prosperity was rising
over Brookside Farm, peace spread her weary wings for flight.

Outside, Jonet had an ally in Thomas Williams, and he did his best to
console her with the prospect of escape to wifehood, and a home of her
own--a home for which her own distaff and her mother's spinning-wheel
were busily making preparation.

Hot-tempered William was, however, the first to shake the dust of the
old home from his well-shod feet.

It was after a sharp altercation over the vexed question of home rule,
which had left Jonet and his mother both in tears, that he startled them
by saying--

'Well, well, really, I did never be expecting to turn my back on the old
place with pleasure. But I am going to Cardiff next week, to be doing
some building for Mr. Morris; and, look you, it is rejoicing I shall be
to leave all this noise and contention behind.'

'Going away!' was the breathless, general exclamation, with varying
addenda.

''Deed, and sure you're welcome! You do be the most obstinate and
worst-tempered of the whole lot,' from Cate.

'Well, Willem, I'll be sorry to be seeing the back of you; but sure and
it may perhaps be the best for all,' added Rhys.

'What, going before I do be marrying?' questioned Jonet; 'but I don't
wonder, anybody would be glad to get away.'

'Going to Cardiff? Oh, my dear boy, my Willem, what ever shall I be
doing without you? Will you be long away?' cried his mother.

'Sure, and I cannot tell, mother dear. I may never come back to live
here. And I am loth to leave you behind to be plagued with the
"continual dropping" of a contentious woman, but I hope to have a farm
of my own some day for you to manage, look you.'

Peace-loving Davy now put in his word, in lowered tones, to William and
his mother.

''Deed, and I was be thinking for some time that the farm was not big
enough to hold Cate and me. But if you be going away, Willem, I shall be
staying to take care of mother here, till I can be making a home for
her--yes, yes!' and he wrung William's hand as a token of brotherly love
and trust.

In a very few days William was on his way to Cardiff, having taken a
grateful farewell of the vicar on the Sunday; for, although Cardiff was
little more than nineteen miles away, even by the Caerphilly route, they
were more than equal to ninety in these steam and railroad times.

His mother parted from him with many rueful misgivings, and much good
advice to resist the temptations sure to beset him in a wicked seaport
town, much as an anxious country mother might in these days warn her
untried son against the countless snares of London. And as she stitched
her warmest flannel up into shirts for him, and looked up newly-knitted
hose, her tears fell upon them silently as her prayers.

His personal belongings did not occupy much space. A few tools,
chap-books and papers, and his entire wardrobe were comfortably packed
in his father's old goatskin saddle-bags; and Robert Jones, with whom he
had had several conferences of late on the qualities of stone from
different quarries, found him a good steady horse which could be left at
the Angel Inn until Robert claimed it on his next errand to Cardiff.

Robert Jones did him another service, the importance of which neither
estimated at the time. He recommended him to apply for lodgings to a
blind baker, named Walter Rosser, whose wife and niece were certain to
make him comfortable.

The baker's shop was easily found, but there was some little hesitation
about admitting a stranger as an inmate.

'What caused you to come hither in search of lodgings?' put the blind
man, with his head on one side as if listening for the answer. 'And what
may be your business in the town?'

'Robert Jones the peat-cutter did advise me to come here. He said you
was honest and respectable and book-learned, and that you would be
dealing fairly with me. And that your wife did be keeping your house as
sweet and clean as my own mother kept the farm. My business do be to
build for Mr. John Morris, look you!'

'There's a clear ring in your voice, young man,' said the baker then.
'And what may be your name?'

'I am Willem Edwards, of Brookside Farm, Eglwysilan,' answered he, with
proud decision--just a little nettled with the blind man's catechism.

'Oh,' said the other, 'I think I have heard of you before. You did build
Owen Wynn's flour-mill. Yes, yes, we shall be glad to have you, sir. You
perceive my infirmity compels me to be particular whom we receive under
our roof, since I have a young niece here, who has neither father nor
mother to watch over her, and we are bound to be careful for her sake.'

'Yes, yes, sure, quite right,' assented the young man, after a glance
beyond the baker and his wife at a blushing damsel in the shade.

Shops at that period were constructed much as are Turkish shops to this
day. Very few had glazed windows. At night they were closed in by flap
shutters, divided horizontally; the lower half of which was lowered in
the daytime to serve as a table or counter for the display of goods, the
upper half being so hooked up by an iron rod as to serve for a screen
from sun or rain. The shop doors were similarly divided, the upper half
hooking up to the low ceiling inside. I have known many such doors in
country towns in England, some of which are, no doubt, extant to this
day.

It will be readily understood that shops of this description, however
small, were dark in the background, and to eyes less keen than
William's, Elaine Parry's blush would have passed unnoticed. It required
after-observation to perceive how neat and trim she always was, how
bashful and retiring, and how quiet and subdued were all her movements;
what a steadfast light there was in her clear, hazel eyes, and what
pretty dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

He only noticed then that she remained quiescent when her uncle cried--

'Come in, sir--come in! I'll mind your horse whilst my good dame shows
you the room we could let you have.'

Up one or two short flights of stairs with landings turning this way or
that, then down a step into a short, dark passage or recess containing
two doors, and he was ushered into a small bedroom, which to him was the
perfection of order and comfort--nay, luxury. True, there was only a
narrow truckle bedstead, with a flock bed upon it, dowlas[14] sheets,
and a dark blue woollen coverlet, but he had never been accustomed to
anything better; and there was a diamond-paned casement, with a table in
front, on which was a coarse earthenware basin and ewer, and, hung
against the wall, a looking-glass about the size of a sheet of
note-paper, all luxurious intimations that his personal ablutions might
be conducted in private. Then there was a fireplace in the room--just a
couple of short iron bars fitted into the brickwork--and beside it, in a
recess, a piece of furniture which puzzled William extremely. Yet it
was nothing more than an oaken bureau, the drawers of which Mrs. Rosser
pulled open to show that they were for his use if he became their
inmate. The mystery of the turn-down flap for writing, the sliding rests
to support its weight, and the enclosed pigeon-holes for papers was a
revelation for the future.

He was almost afraid to ask 'How much?' and was wonderfully gratified to
find the terms below his calculations, and also that he was expected to
take his meals with the family.

All that settled, the door across the dark passage was opened, and a
room with a larger casement was revealed. Here all was equally clean,
from the well-scrubbed floor to the centre table and tall chairs ranged
with stiff precision against the walls, whilst a broad seat beneath the
window held piles of books, and the empty fireplace was adorned with
large conch shells.

'You can come and sit here if you want to be quiet, and will not make a
litter,' said Mrs. Rosser. 'We seldom use the room, except when my
husband is teaching.'

'Teaching?' echoed William curiously.

'Oh yes; don't you know he teaches people to read English?'

'Does what?' he almost gasped.

Mrs. Rosser repeated her words.

'Then Robert Jones has been doing me the best turn he ever did yet, for,
look you, I've been wanting to learn English reading for many a year.'

How it was possible for a blind man to give such instruction was beyond
his comprehension. He accepted the statement as one more of the marvels
he had come across in the baker's comfortable home; and he brought in
his saddle-bags, and gave his horse in charge to the baker's man, as if
he were not sure he was wide awake.

He very soon discovered it was just the difference between living in a
town of some antiquity within reach of a prosperous maritime city like
Bristol, and dwelling apart among the mountain wilds, shut out from
general intercourse, and dependent on itinerant packmen for everything
but home produce.

Even in his meals there was some difference. If he still breakfasted on
porridge, he was unaccustomed to see meat or eggs on the table daily, or
to find the oven substituted for the big pot in cookery, and he missed
the potatoes in which they indulged on the farm.

When the shyness between himself and Elaine Parry, Mrs. Rosser's pretty
niece, had somewhat worn away, he told her this.

'Oh,' said she, 'they are too dear for us. They are two shillings a
pound in Cardiff market.'

'No, indeed! Then I will tell Robert Jones. The farmers do be planting;
they will be cheaper before long, look you.'

And before very long a sack of good potatoes was set down by Robert
Jones at the baker's door, a present from Brookside Farm.

In the interim William Edwards had not been idle. The site selected for
the smelting works was just outside Cardiff, and within easy reach of
the river.

There materials had been collected, and with the sole assistance of John
Llwyd, he built, in the first instance, a blast-furnace on a small
scale, tapering like a cone, the ore and fuel for which had to be
supplied from the top, there being an orifice below from which the
molten metal would escape in a stream.

An ordinary smith's bellows worked by Llwyd supplied the blast, a good
fire of peat and charcoal being well alight before the coal and
broken-up ore were thrown in. It answered fairly for a trial, but once
alight could not be allowed to cool night or day. But the furnace being
built and in working order, there was no difficulty in finding men to
tend and keep it going.

Of course this was an experiment on too small a scale for commercial
success. At all events William Edwards had mastered the great problem
how to utilise anthracite or stone-coal for the smelting of iron. It was
there burning without smoke or flame, and pouring out a thin stream of
molten metal into the sandy moulds which shaped it into bars, or
pig-iron.

Mr. Morris clapped his hand on William's shoulder, and congratulated him
on his achievement.

'Now, Edwards,' said he, 'you must lose no time in putting up another
furnace or two on a larger scale. Let us show the world what genius and
perseverance can accomplish.'

'Yes, yes, sir; but I should like to improve on _that_,' pointing to
what he had already done. 'And before building a larger furnace, I shall
have to consider how the greater blast is to be sustained. It would be
too heavy a task for manual labour if we are to keep large quantities
of this hard coal at fusing heat for corresponding heaps of ore,' was
the proud young fellow's reply.

'No doubt, no doubt,' acquiesced Mr. Morris. 'But you will be certain to
manage it in some way or other. And you know you are free to employ any
workmen or materials you think best. Oh yes; when you set your foot on a
difficulty you are sure to tread it down.'

'Indeed and in truth, sir, I'm not willing to be beaten, and I don't
mean to give in till I've conquered the obstacles here, look you,' said
he, with set and resolute face.

How he overcame the mechanical difficulty I have no data to determine
after this lapse of time; but I incline to think he brought his friend
Thomas Williams to construct a wheel, moved either by horse or water
power, to supply the leverage required to keep the monster forge-bellows
in motion. Twenty years later Smeaton invented the blowing machine for
the Carron Foundry, in Scotland; but William Edwards was a mason and
architect, not a mechanical engineer; and when he had completed his
large furnace, capable of smelting with the hard stone-coal, he had
achieved a victory likely to revolutionise the mining and iron-founding
industries of South Wales--nay, almost to create them. He had saved its
forest trees from utter annihilation. He had paved the way for Smeaton's
feet to tread.

Another furnace rose. The ironworks of John Morris extended and found
occupation and bread for hundreds of workpeople besides those employed
by himself. Fresh mines of coal and iron were opened around Castel Coch
and elsewhere. Whole teams of pack-horses, tended by women and boys,
were ever on the roads, bringing rough ore and coal to the smelters, the
tinkling bell of each leader, or bell-horse, ringing a prophetic note of
progression. It was some time before the invention of a low,
broad-wheeled waggon, drawn by four or six horses, set these old teams
aside; not, indeed, until something had been done to make the roads more
practicable. And long before that, fresh shipping sought the old Cardiff
quays to transport the pig-iron to final manufacturers alike in England
and across the seas. Morris' smelting works seemed to have wakened the
stagnant town from the lethargy of ages.

All this was not the growth of a year or two. Eight full years was
William Edwards working for Mr. Morris, and, whether consciously or not,
for the advancement and prosperity of his country. Not alone was he
occupied in erecting furnaces. Fresh workmen and their families required
fresh homes, and who but William Edwards had the building? And for the
period they were models. His name and fame as a builder travelled
farther than his own feet.

Yet it is not to be supposed that he stood still to let the stream of
progress pass him by, now that he had opened the floodgates wide.

Relays of men fed and tended the glowing furnaces night and day. The
proud young architect and his contingent did their masonry in daylight
hours.

That did not mean inert repose or dissipation for him. He made holiday
when his trial furnace was complete, to visit his mother and brothers
and take part in his sister Jonet's wedding; but his brain was actively
at work the whole time, and it was even on that busy occasion he set the
bridegroom's mechanical brains at work also for mutual benefit.

And whenever there was an interval between one great piece of work and
another, he hired a horse and went home for a day or two, never without
some useful or rare gifts for one and all, and never without calling on
his old friends Robert Jones and Evan Evans by the way.

Those were his only respites from work. His manual labour--for he worked
alongside his men, and allowed no scamping or shirking--was over at
dusk. But no sooner had he laid aside his tools, and washed away the
tokens of his occupation, than he had a book in his hand--generally an
English book, which he was doing his best to decipher unaided at his
meals, as a preparation for private lessons, which the blind man gave to
him by the household hearth, or in his bakehouse, or along with the
adult class assembling twice a week in his upstairs parlour for English
reading.

In the bakehouse Rosser kept an alphabet, the separate letters of which
were shaped and baked out of ordinary dough. And when the eager student
had mastered the English pronunciation of these, which the blind man
could distinguish by the touch, he traced syllables and words in his
plastic medium, until ere long a well-known and well-thumbed book was
put into the learner's hands to be spelt out, or read aloud, as he
progressed.

The blind baker was proud of his pupil.

'You are the most promising scholar I ever took in hand,' said he; 'but
your diligence is unremitting, and failure is impossible.'

Yes, so diligent was he that in consequence of his absorption in his new
study, Elaine Parry's shyness in his presence gradually wore away, and
when she heard him stumbling over a word, she would pronounce it for him
involuntarily, without so much as looking up from her sewing or
knitting.

Nay, the bashfulness became rather on his side at the betrayal of his
own ignorance to a young girl, capable, through superior education, of
correcting his slips and errors. But very soon he accepted her verbal
hints as a matter of course.

Later, when in a difficulty, he did not scruple to rise from his seat
and cross the hearth to point out a phrase or passage he was unable to
translate. And she, perchance, would lay down her work, glance at his
book, and look calmly up in his face as she gave the true reading in a
clear, firm voice.

[Illustration: ELAINE PARRY.]

After a time, for easier reference, he brought his own seat near to
hers, so that he might have her assistance without rising. And, although
his dark-brown head and her light one were thus frequently drawn close
together, his one idea had such thorough possession of him, that his
single-minded desire for knowledge disarmed the seeming familiarity of
all obtrusiveness.

Certainly, neither he nor Elaine had the slightest conception that
anything was being taught or learned other than the King's English.

She was too retiring and well behaved to thrust herself into the
prominent notice of a stranger, so that after that first general
impression that the baker's niece was a pretty and tidy young woman, he
scarcely bestowed a second thought upon her.

Mrs. Rosser's astounding intimation that her husband taught Welshmen to
read English had swallowed up all minor considerations, just as the
River Taff swallowed up all sorts of tributary streams in its course to
the sea.

Then, apart from his lingual studies, his furnace-building was ever on
his mind. It was a very great and novel undertaking, and the whole force
of his intelligence was brought to bear upon it.

So that, although she moved before him in her daily occupations, and
ministered to his necessities at meal-times, it was just as if a sister
had been before his eyes continually. Certainly, she always wore shoes
and stockings, and, on Sundays, the very set of her cloak and tall hat,
and the border of white linen cap, had a grace and fitness most
becoming. And she carried her English prayer-book to church so
unobtrusively, and found her places so readily, he was bound to notice
that; but _there_ some envy blunted the edge of admiration.

Her influence was that of summer dew on vegetation. It refreshes
insensibly and imperceptibly. Had she bustled about noisily, had there
been any discord between her and her aunt, it would have arrested his
attention with the jarring effect of a thunderstorm.

As it was, she became part and parcel of his daily life, and it was not
until he had been about three years in Cardiff that a slight illness
which kept her in her own room for a week or ten days roused him to the
consciousness how much he was indebted to her for the comfort and
brightness of his surroundings.

However intelligent a companion Walter Rosser might be--and he could
talk both of the world and of books, having known both before blindness
set in--he lacked just the touch of kindly appreciation so gratifying to
the self-esteem of the rising young builder after years of
home-snubbing; the word or two of discriminating opinion his niece gave
so thoughtfully whenever doubts and difficulties beset him in the
execution of his plans; for all was not fair sailing, clever as he might
be, and there were times when he was glad of a sympathetic ear.

He was restless and uneasy the whole time she lay ill upstairs, and was
ready to ransack the town for tea, oranges, or any other over-sea luxury
she might fancy. And he was never the same to her, or she to him, after
she was back by the household fire, paler, but oh! how infinitely
dearer!

The touch of his horny hand, and the softened tones of his voice, said
more than his commonplace words of greeting: ''Deed, Elaine, it's right
glad we are to have you downstairs again. We have been missing you so
terribly.'

And there was more than the tremulousness of physical weakness in her
low reply: 'Yes, and I am glad to be here. It is miserable to be shut up
away from you all, giving aunt and you so much trouble; but we may bear
with illness when friends are so kind.'

FOOTNOTE:

[14] Dowlas, a coarse kind of linen.




CHAPTER XXIII.

BRIDGE-BUILDING.


It so happened that when William Edwards had taken his first holiday, in
1741, to be groomsman at the marriage of his sister Jonet with his
friend Thomas Williams, that he had found Caerphilly--nay, all
Eglwysilan--in a state of ferment, owing to the exciting presence in
their midst of the noted preacher, the Rev. George Whitfield, for many
years the colleague of the Rev. John Wesley, and only recently separated
from him through doctrinal difference.

They had alike left their pulpits in the Church to go preaching and
teaching throughout the land, in the high-ways and by-ways, denouncing
the vice and folly and sin then rampant, calling sinners to repentance,
admonishing their hearers to lead simple, pure, and Christ-like lives,
and preaching the acceptable year of the Lord, at the same time holding,
as it were, the flaming sword of God's wrath over the impenitent.

It should here be told that, finding his dear mother made light of by
Cate, and set aside on the farm so very recently her own, William had
himself taken the first opportunity that presented itself to remove her
and Jonet to a farm he had acquired in the Aber Valley--not far from his
friend Thomas Williams--a farm for his mother and Davy to manage between
them.

His road hither, of course, lay through Caerphilly; and after having
left the town behind him nearly two miles, he was surprised to find a
concourse of people in a field by the wayside, not far from his own
home, listening to a man in a clerical gown and bands, who stood on a
pile of stones, and, with impassioned voice and gesture, besought his
hearers to 'flee from the wrath to come.' His text had evidently been:
'To-day if ye will hear His voice, harden not your heart;'[15] and he
hammered at the 'to-day' until he drove it into the hearts of many
around him. Women wept, men fell on their knees and called out aloud as
emotion swayed them, and William sat like a statue until the last word
was spoken and the preacher, worn out with his own fervour, turned to
depart along with some friends of his own.

William, like scores beside him, had gone to church and read his Bible
as a duty; had learned the catechism the good vicar drilled into the
youth of his flock; but beyond that his religion did not go very deep.

George Whitfield's sermon, on which he had come so suddenly, was like
the bow drawn at a venture, the sharp arrow from which smote the King of
Israel between the joints of his armour; for so it pierced the heart of
the young man, whose very thought of late had been of furnace-building
and of English study.

The face, the voice, the manner of the earnest preacher haunted him no
less than his awakening words. And when Davy, who had been also a
listener, laid his hand upon the horse's bridle, and spoke to him, he
started like one aroused from a dream.

To suit general convenience--the old vicar's included--it had been
arranged that Jonet and Thomas Williams should be married at St.
Martin's, Caerphilly--then only a chapel-of-ease to Eglwysilan; and
there a fresh surprise awaited William Edwards, for when, the following
day, the united wedding party from Brookside and Aber dashed
helter-skelter along the road to the church, in their race to catch the
bride, he beheld a gravely-attired procession on foot, somewhat ahead of
them, proceeding calmly in the same direction. And, when their own
panting steeds had been left behind at a convenient inn, he observed
that, of the more decorous bridal party entering the church porch, the
bridegroom, a man of some twenty-seven years, was no other than that
same Rev. George Whitfield, whose words had burnt themselves into his
breast, never to be effaced, and his bride, Elizabeth James, whom he
knew by sight.

He could scarcely keep his eyes off the man, or his attention on the
business before him. Yet he could not fail to notice that the aged
vicar, who was growing feeble and tremulous, was apparently conscious he
had no ordinary couple before him to unite in holy matrimony, and
performed the ceremony for both parties with unusual impressiveness,
undisturbed by the sounds of giggling and tittering in the rear.

Such giggling and tittering were of common occurrence, as was the rough
struggle for the first kiss of the newly-made bride, and the Rev. John
Smith raised no voice in rebuke or protest when such a rush was made
towards Jonet.

Not so the evangelistic bridegroom. No sooner were their names signed in
the register, than with his bride upon his arm, he quitted the church.
Then, surrendering her to the care of the sedate groomsman, he mounted a
tombstone, and with uplifted hand and voice demanded attention.

So unwonted was the proceeding, that even the most hilarious paused and
drew near out of mere curiosity; but when they left the chapelyard they
had received such a lecture on the reverence due to the sacred place, on
the solemnity of the ceremony they were present to witness, and on the
import for time and eternity of the vows there made in the sight of
God--such a lecture as few of those there assembled were likely to
forget.

At its close, William, withdrawing from his companions, walked up to Mr.
Whitfield and thanked him heartily for his discourses, both there and
the previous afternoon. 'You have roused me from spiritual apathy and
carelessness into which I never shall sink again,' he said, with
characteristic decision. 'And should you come to Cardiff before you
leave South Wales, you may count on me as an awakened hearer.'

The preacher's influence did not soon die away. William had other
opportunities for joining in the services led by the enthusiastic
preacher, and in his zeal prevailed on the blind baker and his niece to
bear him company. Rosser's infirmity threw him much within himself.
Elaine was naturally of a serious cast, and the eloquence of the
powerful revivalist moved them both greatly.

This was long before the girl's illness to which I have already
referred. But as William and her uncle conversed together on the great
truths they had heard so powerfully expounded, or joined in household
prayer, there can be no doubt a link was forged and strengthened to draw
the young people closer together, however insensibly, than if they had
spent their leisure in light chatter and frivolous fooling. Yet nothing
had been said in the course of years of either love or marriage.

Meanwhile William had made himself conversant with English. Then, at the
instance of Rosser, he procured the works of Sir Isaac Newton, and
devoted himself to the study of geometry and kindred sciences with the
assiduity of a man bent on success.

Barely had he completed his furnaces for Mr. John Morris when proposals
for like work came to him from other quarters, offering him most liberal
and gratifying terms.

Then, and not before, did he open out all his heart to Elaine, and,
proud of the distinction it implied, pressed her to become his wife
before he closed his engagement with his first patron, or entered upon
a fresh one which would remove him to a distance.

He had come upon Elaine in the twilight as she stood behind the
flap-counter of her uncle's open shop, with a few unsold loaves upon the
board, and, elate with the prospect before him, never doubted she who
had grown so dear to his heart would gladly put her hand in his to share
his rising fortunes.

He drew her closer to him as he stood beside her in the shade, and met
with no repulse, for she owned she knew his worth and loved him dearly,
but his soaring spirit drooped its wings under a sudden check.

'Nay, nay, dear William,' she said, amid slowly falling tears, 'it
cannot be. How I shall miss you, and grieve for you in your absence,
there is no telling; but though I can marry no one else, I cannot leave
my good uncle and aunt now they are getting into years. They have been
all the father and mother I have known.'

'But, my dearest Elaine, do not daughters leave their parents to become
wives? I never expected such an answer from _you_. Surely, when I took
that farm in the Aber Valley years ago, had I no deeper meaning than to
make my mother and David more comfortable? Had you no suspicion that one
day I should want to place my wife there, and make a home for both of
us?'

Her tears dropped on the strong hand that held hers in its clasp, but
she answered never a word.

'Elaine, dear Elaine,' he went on, 'I can enlarge the homestead, and
extend the farm lands, so that your uncle and aunt could live with us
all under one roof, if you will but consent.'

'Don't, don't, William dear,' she sobbed. 'It is very, very kind of you,
but it would never answer. You must not even suggest such a thing to my
uncle. He is proud of his double calling as baker and teacher. How often
have you heard him say with pride "he provided food for both body and
mind; and no man with both his eyes could do more"? No, you would wound
his self-dependence. I honour your good heart, but--I cannot leave
them.'

'Is there no one else can take your place, Elaine? How am I to leave you
here alone?'

She shook her head. 'They have no one but their married daughter in
Bristol. What sort of a wife should I make if I failed in my duty to
them? Besides, a wife just now would only cripple your freedom of
action. We are both young enough to wait.'

'Young enough if willing.' His obstinate temper was rising.

'If it be God's will, it should be our will.' As she spoke she withdrew
from his clasp.

'Look you, Elaine!' he exclaimed, with something of his old passion.
'The more a string is stretched, the sooner it breaks.' And away he went
in high displeasure, leaving her standing there faint with her own
effort at self-suppression.

It did not rest there. He was persistent. She was firm. And he had
neither won her consent to marry, nor come to terms for the construction
of fresh smelting works, when another project was on foot, which was to
make or mar the man.

I have said that roads were defective, and that bridges were needed to
span rivers which cut off communication between town and town, county
and county, and shut up the vast mineral wealth of South Wales.

Herbert, the new Lord of Cardiff, had made the Castle his residence, the
discoveries in connection with Mr. Pryse having determined him to see
with his own eyes, and to delegate irresponsible authority to no one. He
strengthened the hands of Mr. Morris in his efforts to utilise the iron
and coal of the county, and to provide remunerative work for the
depressed population. And he did what he could to improve, not merely
the decaying town, but the rest of his vast possessions in
Glamorganshire. He soon became keenly alive to the necessity for better
communication with his property on the other side of the Taff than that
of ferry, or ford, or coracle.

In this he was by no means alone.

Other landowners, magistrates, and men who saw fortunes buried beneath
the soil, or losing half their value upon it for want of accessible
markets, grumbled and growled on their own hearths, or to each other
when they chanced to meet, until the discontent became so general that
the heads of the county met in conclave at the Angel Inn in Cardiff,
and decided on the erection of a stone bridge over the treacherous Taff.

Then came the question, 'Who should be the builder?'

'There is no better builder whatever in all South Wales than Mr. William
Edwards,' said Mr. Morris, with decision.

'Indeed, and that's the truth,' came simultaneously from various
speakers.

'But he has never erected a bridge, and he is so very young,' put in
another dubiously. 'It will be a work of difficulty. We should engage an
architect of established repute.'

'He never put up a mill until he built Owen Wynn's flour-mill, and he
never put up a furnace until he built mine,' replied Mr. Morris; 'and
you all know what those are. But, young as he is, you may take my word
for it he will undertake nothing he is not competent to carry out, and
he is certain to accomplish whatever he has set his mind upon.'

A good deal of heated argument followed this speech.

The former speaker adhered to his suggestion that 'some one of more
eminence should be engaged--such a man, for instance, as Mr. James
Gibbs, an architect of note.'

His lordship shook his head. 'Yes; Mr. Gibbs is an ecclesiastical
architect of note, but you require a bridge, not a church, or a'--

'What? That old _Scotchman_!' burst from impatient lips. 'Did he ever
build a bridge? And what should a Scotchman know of our Welsh rivers?
And what would he charge?'

That suggestion of an exorbitant cost virtually settled the business
before Mr. Morris rose again, and with a wave of the hand to calm the
patriotic hubbub, remarked--

'I think, gentlemen, you will have to fall back on Mr. William Edwards.
He is confessedly the best builder in all South Wales--a practical
builder, not a mere architect. He was but a boy about nine years of age
when he told me his father had been drowned in crossing the Eglwysilan
ford, and that when he was a big man he would build a bridge there to
save other lives. Believe me, he would put his heart into the work. And
_he_ is not an alien.'

On the following day, September 16, 1746, three gentlemen, dressed in
deep vests, full-skirted coats, and three-cornered hats, more or less in
conformity with English wear, presented themselves at the baker's shop,
and asked to see Mr. Edwards.

They were shown upstairs into the class-room parlour by Elaine, and then
she tapped gently at William's door opposite in the dark passage, and
told him he was wanted.

He was at that moment seated, pen in hand, in front of his bureau-desk,
with a sheet of paper before him, on which he had begun to indite his
acceptance of the smelter's proposal.

Who could be wanting him?

Down went his quill; he thrust his arms into the short-tailed coat hung
over his chair back, gave himself a shake, and in less than two minutes
he was face to face with Mr. Morris and two strangers, to whom he was
formally introduced as _Mr._ William Edwards. They were magistrates, and
men of note in the county, deputed to lay before him the project for
bridging over the Taff, and ascertain his willingness to undertake its
construction.

Mr. Morris had placed himself in the broad window seat, his friends had
drawn a couple of the high-backed chairs between the window and the
table to bring them closer together, and as William stood there with the
full light of the setting sun upon his somewhat square features, they
could perceive him start and rest one strong nervous hand upon the
table, whilst his broad nostrils quivered, his bright clear eyes lit up,
and his face flushed, only to whiten under the excitement of their
proposal, and the remembrance of the unfinished letter upon his desk.

There could be no second thought of his acceptance.

'Willing to undertake it, gentlemen?' he said breathlessly. 'Competent?
It has been my dream from boyhood; though I owe the first suggestion to
a jesting hint from Mr. Morris. Stay, I will show you.'

In less than three minutes he had fetched from the bureau in the other
room--where he left a crumpled-up letter--several drawings of bridges
in all stages of architectural finish, from the first rude conception of
his youth, to the riper studies of manhood.

By the time his contract with Mr. Morris expired, his design for the
proposed bridge had been considered and approved, as also the site,
close upon the Eglwysilan ford, midway between Merthyr Tydvil and
Cardiff, so as to unite the already beaten road.

He was elate and buoyant over the trust reposed in him; although Rhys,
his mother, Davy, and other friends had been called upon to enter into
bonds for the fulfilment of his contract, since he was to be paid as the
work proceeded.

The intending smelter, desirous to secure his services, consented to
wait until he was again at liberty.

The young architect's pride had but one drawback. He could not shake
Elaine's fidelity to her uncle and aunt. She would not desert them in
their old age.

'It will be better for you to go to this great work unfettered by a
wife,' she argued bravely.

But he would not see the personal sacrifice she made, and went off at
last in a huff.

'This new business will be his solace,' she said. 'I must be content to
do my duty, and leave the rest to God.'

And neither her aunt nor her blind uncle knew the temptation she had
resisted for their sakes, though they thought her quieter than before.

She was right. His new business left William little leisure for looking
back.

He had gone over to Bristol to engage masons, in addition to those he
had already trained, before he finally took leave.

Then there was no running back. His first duty was to erect huts or
houses for his workpeople and their families; and he took care they were
such as should be of service when the temporary purpose was served.

He had long before made John Llwyd his foreman--a good deputy on whom he
could rely; just as he could depend on his old friend Robert Jones for
the best of stone from the very best local quarries, or for his sand and
lime. For the carriage of other matters to and fro he fell back on
Robert's active young partner Hughes, for whom the peat-cutter's niece
had jilted easy-going Davy.

But ere the foundations of the bridge were laid and firm, the builder
had engaged his brother-in-law, Thomas Williams, to supply the wooden
frames on which his arches were to be fitted and adjusted. And so, with
trustworthy coadjutors like these, the work went on steadily.

At first he had to battle with the deceitful river; but he and his men
watched the skies and did their best to prevent disaster, though more
than one occurred.

But the resolution of their master seemed infused into the men. If there
was any doubt or hazard, he took the tools himself, and wrought until
they were ashamed to hang back.

Though he had a farm of his own but two miles or so away, and his
brother's farm was close at hand, he occupied one of the new cottages
along with Llwyd, and so was always on the spot.

Besides that, he fared almost as his men fared. If a labourer's wife or
child fell sick he helped them from his own stores or pocket; and his
men worked all the better for his thoughtful kindness.

His bridge-building had brought quite a colony upon the spot, not merely
of the workpeople, but of others, who found they had money to spend and
wants to be supplied.

Soon he become conscious of another want. The Rev. John Smith, the kind
old vicar, had died full of years shortly after Jonet's marriage, and
the new vicar did not seem to recognise the strangers as part of his
flock. So William, finding the non-observance of the Sabbath led to
disorder, called the people round him, and from the Druids'
rocking-stone read out portions of Scripture to them, now and then
venturing on expositions of his own.

So the weeks and the seasons rounded until at the end of two years there
stood a fine three-arched bridge across the river, to be opened with
loud acclaim and rejoicing--a bridge the excited guarantors pronounced
firm and solid enough to stand as surely for seventy years as seven,
the period for which its stability was guaranteed.

'Indeed!' exclaimed the proud young builder. 'It is more likely to stand
firm for seven hundred years!'

FOOTNOTE:

[15] Psalm xcv. 7, 8.




CHAPTER XXIV.

PONT-Y-PRIDD.


It was a glorious day for the self-taught architect. The hanging woods
on either bank of the river held nearly as many spectators as trees,
whilst along the narrow roads came a motley multitude on foot or
horseback, or in cumbrous, top-heavy leather carriages, drawn by four
horses (less for state than necessity), poor as well as rich having
assembled from all parts to witness the opening of the new bridge that
was to do so much for the county.

'To witness my triumph,' William Edwards phrased it. But then, too much
diffidence was not the family failing. And, for a self-taught man, it
_was_ a triumph.

There was no room for two carriages to pass abreast, but the few there
assembled crossed alternately, the Viscount's prancing horses leading
the way. Then there was a rush of people, mounted and on foot; horses,
ponies, mules, and asses scampering across pell-mell in such wild
confusion and entanglement, amid shouts and untranslatable cries, as
certainly tested the stability of the structure. And such
congratulations greeted the builder as were calculated to turn more
seasoned heads than his.

Davy, full of brotherly pride and affection, had brought his mother on a
pillion behind him; and there, surrounded by her children and her
grandchildren, the old dame, overcome by her emotion in contrasting the
present with the past, and witnessing the great work of her son and his
reception by the gentry, fairly sobbed aloud, the big tears rolling down
her tanned and wrinkled cheeks.

'Name o' goodness, mother, I don't be knowing what you have got to cry
for, whatever. People do be looking at you!' remarked Rhys curtly, on a
hint from Cate.

''Deed, I do be crying for joy. I never expected to be seeing a day like
this.'

'Do leave mother alone, Rhys,' quickly remonstrated Davy in an
undertone. 'Her heart do be full, and it must run over, look you.'

Evan Evans and Ales stood by, dressed in their Sunday best for the great
occasion, a newly-breeched boy by the hand.

'I do be wishing Jane Edwards would not be washing the new bridge with
her tears, Evan--'deed, I do,' whispered Ales to him.

'Ah, yes, it do be a bad baptism,' he echoed, shaking his head, which
had been crammed with superstition on shipboard. 'And I do be hoping the
rain will keep off, for the clouds be gathering over Garth Mountain,
look you.'

The rain did keep off for two or three hours, until long after the
hand-shaking and speech-making were over, and the great people had
dispersed, and all who had not stayed behind to feast were on their way
homewards, thankful they would be able in future to cross the river
dry-shod and out of danger, whatever the hour or the weather, the
'cleverness' of the Widow Edwards' son being on every tongue.

That son, however, had been surfeited with praise, and was moving
amongst the crowds in irritable reaction seeking for some one he failed
to find--some one whose approbation would have o'ertopped the highest.

At last, when he was ready to bite his lips with vexation, a boy, who
came riding hastily from the Cardiff Road, put a letter in his hand, and
lingered as if waiting for an answer.

The writing was Elaine's.

The letter was torn open impatiently.

Only a few blotted words:--


     'DEAR FRIEND,--We hear your meritorious work is complete, and send
     you our heartfelt greetings; but we are in great trouble, for Uncle
     Rosser had a fit last night, and has not spoken since. Aunt is full
     of grief. She has sent to Bristol for my cousin, for the apothecary
     says uncle cannot live. You will pardon our absence to-day; and
     believe me, your sincere well-wisher,

     'ELAINE PARRY.'


Two hours later he had left the feasters and was in the saddle, muffled
in a thick riding-coat, speeding on to Cardiff through driving rain and
the darkening shades of evening.

When he drew rein at the baker's door he was too late for all but
consolation. The blind man had opened his long-closed eyes on the
glorious wonders of eternity.

Never had Elaine felt so much the need of his strong arm and
self-reliant individuality as then, in their overwhelming affliction.
His unexpected arrival touched a sensitive chord and broke down the
barriers between them. She sprang towards him, and clung to him weeping,
as she had never done before.

Amazement checked the flow of Mrs. Rosser's tears for the moment; and
when he put out his hand to grasp hers, she too felt there was a strong
friend to rely on in their extremity.

Then was it first observed that he was wringing wet; and in hospitable
cares for the long absent, the first acuteness of pain was something
blunted.

After that, as if he had been Mrs. Rosser's own son, he took all
miserable details off their feminine hands. It was he, too, who met the
daughter--Mrs. Elton--and her Bristolian husband on their arrival, and
broke the distressing intelligence to them.

Death involves changes. No sooner was the dead laid in the earth than
the desirability of the widow's future residence with her daughter was
openly discussed. Consideration for Elaine appeared the only obstacle to
the plan.

'I am quite willing to make a home for my mother-in-law,' said Mr. Elton
in private to Mr. Edwards, with a show of self-complacent liberality,
much as though he patted himself on the back for a praiseworthy
sacrifice, ignoring the savings of years likely to bear her company;
'but I cannot consent to burden myself with the young woman. And she
cannot really expect it. She is no relation of mine or my wife's. She
must look out for a situation. She quite blocks the way to an amicable
adjustment of affairs,' he added irritably.

William speedily removed _that_ block out of their way.

'Do not trouble yourself about Elaine, sir,' put in William stiffly.
'There has been a situation waiting for her over two years.'

Mr. Elton opened his eyes. 'Indeed!'

'Yes, sir. Two years back I pressed her to become my honoured _wife_,
but her strong, sense of duty constrained her to repress her own
inclinations, and send me away wifeless rather than desert her aunt and
uncle in their old age. You can adjust your affairs irrespective of
Elaine Parry, I can assure you. A good home and a loving welcome await
her.'

Mr. Elton was snubbed, and looked it.

In less than three months there was a very quiet wedding at Cardiff, and
Elaine went away with her husband to his farm, midway between his bridge
and the ruined Castle of Caerphilly, where his old mother and Davy
lived, within easy reach of Jonet and her husband. The few houses have
multiplied since then into a village that bears the name of Aber.

At first old Mrs. Edwards felt as if she was to be a second time
deposed. And she expected Elaine's town ways would clash with her
country ones. But when she found that Elaine deferred to her as she had
done to her own aunt, and was desirous to be instructed in all that
pertained to her duties on the farm, there was no word too good for her
'clever son William's clever wife.'

Then she could already knit and spin, and had brought her own wheel, as
well as a shelf of books, and something in hard cash, so that, as Davy
said, she was 'quite an acquisition on the farm.'

William had built the house according to his enlarged ideas of domestic
comfort. There were two storeys, and notwithstanding the very heavy tax
on glass, it shone in every window, and these were of useful size. He
had brought home along with his wife the bureau he had found so useful
for his papers, and kept them and his books in a room set apart for
himself.

With the completion of the bridge, he abandoned to John Llwyd the
cottage he had erected on the river's side, his new furnace work being
within sufficiently accessible distance of the farm, so long as he could
leave his efficient foreman on the spot, and his workmen also. He was
glad then he had erected permanent and commodious houses for the men,
instead of temporary huts, since there was still employment for them
all. Explorations for iron and coal were going on in the vicinity. These
created a fresh demand for labour, and a corresponding demand for roofs
to shelter the newcomers.

As he beheld the new colony of labourers and managers rising up, as it
were, under his auspices, his heart swelled with pride and
self-sufficient inflation.

'Ah, yes,' he would say to his wife, 'this is all my doing. I told Rhys
I would be the greater man. Yes, he must own it now, if he would not
then. Look at my wonderful bridge. It will stand for ever.'

He was saying something of the kind one morning, when his first-born, a
boy he had named David after his brother, was about eighteen months old.
He had the child on his knee at the time.

Elaine had a shuddering dread upon her whenever she heard his boastful
words.

'Yes, William dear,' she said soberly, 'we know your skill is great, but
I wish you would not boast of the stability of your bridge so often. We,
as well as the bridge, are in the hands of the Almighty!'

He put the child down hastily and rose to his feet. 'Surely, Elaine, you
are not going to join the croakers? Rhys told me the other day, "Not to
hold my head so high, for pride was sure to have a fall." Sure, I have a
right to be proud if any one has.'

'_If?_' murmured Elaine under her breath; but he caught the doubtful
word, and, snatching at his hat, strode out of the house angrily.

A thick mantle of snow covered hill and valley, against which the
whitewashed houses looked grey and dingy.

'It do be thawing fast,' said Davy to him as they met at the gate, he
with a spade over his shoulder. 'I do hope the rain will be keeping off
till the snow be all gone. But I don't be liking the looks of the clouds
in the north-west.'

'Why not?' questioned William sharply.

Davy hesitated. 'Well, if the rain do come upon the melting snow, we
shall be having heavy floods.'

'Well, and what then?' snappily.

''Deed, and I do be always thinking of the bridge when the floods come.'

'Pouf! the bridge is safe if a hundred floods come.' And on he went,
ruffled, but wrapped in self-opinionated vanity. He had forgotten George
Whitfield and his Master then.

Nevertheless, he went to take a look at the bridge and the river, on his
way to the new ironworks, where his first furnace was already at work.

'Ah, well,' he thought, 'the water _is_ high; but, pouf! that is no
flood.'

Towards afternoon a thin rain began to fall and liquefy the melting
snow. As the men were leaving work, Llwyd came up to him with an anxious
face and whispered, 'Master, the river do be desperately full, and if'--

William looked as if he could have struck his faithful monitor to the
earth.

Yes, the river was rising and racing through the three arches with the
swiftness of a torrent, surcharged with hay and straw, brushwood and
mould, washed downward in its course, but they swept well under the
bold archways and swirled away in eddies beyond.

'There can be no danger. Those piers are firm enough,' he muttered, as
if to convince himself as well as Llwyd.

Dusk came down and blotted out the scene. In turning away he came upon
Rhys, whose gloomy face it was well he could not see.

Llwyd and Davy too were there, with other watchers who had helped to
rear the bridge.

'Tell Elaine I shall stay with Llwyd to-night,' said William to Davy. It
was his first note of apprehension. Towards midnight he said, 'If the
rain ceases there can be no danger.'

But the rain did not cease. As the night fled and the morning hours
advanced, the winds came howling and tearing like demons down the Taff
Valley, driving the pelting rain before them in a mad hurricane,
fighting for mastery alike with tall green pines and the bare boughs of
elms and gnarled oaks.

Gradually, as lapping waters undermined rocks and rugged banks, already
loosened by frost and melting snows, along many a swollen mountain
stream the surging torrent bore down their tributary reeds and shrubs
and earth, along with riven boughs and uptorn trees, that beat like
battering-rams against the good stone piers, holding their trust so
sturdily. Then, eddying, the mighty current of the mocking Taff swung
the tall fir-trees round and barred the still open arches cross-wise,
one by one. Here, as in a net, the lamentable wreckage of the moors, of
ruined cots and devastated farms, was caught and built up into a dam the
turbid water could neither pass nor wash away. And rising, still rising,
rising swifter than the rising sun, like a gigantic monster playing with
boulder stones for bowls, the resistless river hammered with them
against the parapet, and beat it in. Then, with a tumultuous roar as of
triumph, and a deafening crash that startled sleepers in their beds more
than a mile distant, the bridge that was built for centuries was swept
away into irreparable ruin.

A shriek, as of mortal horror, rose as an echo from the crowded banks.
The three brothers and their friends looked in each other's whitened
faces as the cost of the catastrophe cut keenly into their souls.

Rhys groaned aloud.

'There does never have been such an awful flood since I was born; no
masonry whatever could be standing against it,' cried grey-headed Owen
Griffith, as he leant upon his staff to bear up against the wind.

He had seen the darkening glances cast on the luckless architect, and
interposed to spare him the reproaches of coarse tongues.

'Keep that consolation for those who have run no risk. It will not be
saving Cate and the rest from ruin and beggary, through this braggart
brother of mine and his bridge,' burst from ungovernable Rhys.

'It may _save_ me and you all from ruin,' retorted William defiantly. 'I
have discovered what a flood can do, and what must be guarded against.
Before the term of our guarantee expires, I will span this river with a
bridge no flood shall wash away. 'Deed I will.'

A crowd had gathered. There were mocking voices heard beside Rhys'. A
quarrel and a tumult threatened; for fierce as the war of the elements
was the tempest raging in the breasts of men who had been closest
friends.

'Come away,' cried placable Davy, linking his arm within William's, and
looking round him. 'When the Lord do be speaking men should be silent.
Yes, and before the breath of His nostrils the best man's handiwork will
go down, look you.' And whispering something to his baited brother of
'home' and 'Elaine,' he drew him peaceably away.

_He_ had no word of reproach, though he had staked the savings of his
life, equally with Rhys, and his forbearance silenced others, then and
afterwards.

Nor did any reproaches or taunts meet William at his own fireside.
Rumour had run fleetfooted before them with the disastrous tidings. The
shock had thus been anticipated. Clasping arms and sympathetic words
alone awaited him. 'It is the will of God,' said both mother and wife;
'it is useless to rebel.'

Strange to say, William Edwards was apparently the least cast down of
any. In a day or two he had recovered much of his elasticity. He showed
a brave face to friends and envious foes, and maintained that no man
should forfeit his guarantee. He would replace the wrecked bridge with a
better.

There were men who sneered; there were more who sympathised, for the
rebuilding would be at his own cost, and would sweep away all his former
gains. Yet all friends did not desert him. Mr. Morris and the Viscount
defended him against malicious attacks on 'unqualified pretenders.' No
one could deny the vehement pressure of the terrible flood.

His newer plan, a bridge of _a single arch_, and of a span
unprecedented, was seen and approved.

Workmen were not far to seek. Almost with the subsidence of the waters
labourers were at work removing the still upstanding remains of the old
piers, the tenacity of the masonry giving the undaunted builder fresh
hope.

On fresh foundations another bridge arose, Jonet's husband marvelling at
the measurements supplied for the wooden framework.

'Yes,' said William, whose pride and self-assumption rose as he surveyed
the magnificent proportions of his bridge, 'I defy any flood to beat
that down. Look at its breadth and height! Any volume of water could
sweep under that arch! Yes, indeed, if it brought half a forest down
with it. The piers were the mistake before, Thomas.'

''Deed, yes!' assented the other.

The keystone of the arch had been laid; time had been given for cement
to harden; the wooden framework of the arch was being removed when this
was said; only the parapets were wanting, and on those the men were
beginning.

Another day the last scrap of timber was gone. Rhys had come down
sullenly to the water's edge, weighted by his responsibility, and too
doubtful of his brother's skill to give even his perseverance credit.
There he found Jonet and Elaine, each with an infant in her arms. A few
idlers stood staring and gaping under the trees on the steep banks.

All at once, with no more premonitory shock than a slight tremulous
motion under foot that scared the working masons away, the keystone of
the arch shot up into the air like a ball; the centre of the arch seemed
to rise bodily and press upwards like an inverted V, as if impelled by
superhuman force from the sides; there was a report as of a tremendous
gunpowder explosion, a blinding shower of dust and flying stones
whirling in mid air, a wide gap where a noble structure had been five
minutes before.

Draw a curtain over the scene of the collapse. Close the ears to the
taunts and mockery, the scorn and derisive epithets, which assail the
unfortunate architect wheresoever he goes. Everywhere, save under his
own roof, where wife and mother and Davy combined to shield him. But
only his wife can enter into his feelings, and alleviate his bitter
humiliation. Where he is weak, she is strong, and her very touch is
healing.

[Illustration: ONLY HIS WIFE CAN ENTER INTO HIS FEELINGS, AND ALLEVIATE
HIS BITTER HUMILIATION.--_See page 327._]

Let us follow him into his little private room, and find him on his
knees acknowledging in all humility his self-sufficient dependence on
himself, his proud and confident trust in his own skill, his
forgetfulness of the Lord, omnipotent alike to create and to destroy,
from whom he derived whatever mental superiority he possessed, who had
led him step by step to success, who had spoken to him by the warning
voice of George Whitfield, and at last had broken his stubborn heart,
and, with the thunders of calamity, brought him to acknowledge that,
'Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it.'

Out of that room he walked that day another manner of man.

He was the first to confess that the haunches or side foundations of his
bridge had not sufficient strength to bear the strain of the lofty and
expansive arch he had imposed upon them. But he added, '_Please God_, I
will yet, _with His help_, fulfil my contract, and build a bridge that
shall stand, even if it leave me penniless.'

Fonder was Elaine of her husband in his humility and misfortune than in
the pride of his success.

Davy had always stuck by him. 'He set no store by his bit of money
whatever. William was welcome to every penny, if it was any good.'

Others, richer than Davy, who had held aloof from the 'self-confident
amateur,' as they called him, were moved by his newly-developed modesty,
no less than by his indomitable perseverance and resolution (Rhys called
it obstinacy) in the face of catastrophes that would have overwhelmed
weaker men. And they honoured his integrity. When his fresh plans were
ready, funds to 'assist' were ready also.

Over those plans he had pondered and prayed. Like a flash it came to
his mind that, as the single arch was a strength in masonry, a double
arch--that is, a circle--must have double strength, and on that he
formed his plan, to bind the haunches of his bridge with cylinders of
decreasing sizes, not to narrow his span of arch.

Once more the river-bed was cleared. But on the Sunday, before a stone
of the new bridge was laid, he summoned his workpeople around him in the
Druids' circle, and, standing upon the rocking-stone, he preached to
them from the text, 'Except the Lord build the house, they labour in
vain that build it,' telling the story of his sudden conversion, of the
failure of his other bridges as providential instruments to save him
from overweening arrogance and self-sufficiency; and wound up with an
exhortation that they should lay every stone as if they laid it before
the Lord, who alone could decide whether this or that man's work was
good or bad.

And so, week by week, as the work went on, Sunday by Sunday he preached
and prayed amongst his men on that Druidical altar, consecrating it
afresh to the living God, and dedicating himself and his life to the
service of Christ.

In like manner, when the last coping-stone was in its place, and his
workmen had gathered up their tools to depart, he knelt down upon the
bridge, and dedicated that with prayer, saying at the last, 'Keep Thy
servant from presumptuous sins. And be the glory Thine, O Lord.'

Thus, in 1755, when William Edwards was but thirty-six, he had completed
his trinity of bridges over the terrible Taff. And there to this day it
stands, fair to see, with the date of its erection upon it, a bridge
with a wider span than the Venetian Rialto--a bridge pierced by three
hollow cylinders on either side, rising gracefully with the magnificent
arch as they decrease in size.[16]

Upon the opening day, apart from the peasantry, the magnates of three
counties flocked to see this wonder of a bridge, and the indomitable man
who had created it, in the face of difficulties that would have daunted
weaker men.

As one by one Welshmen of note bent from horse or carriage to shake
hands with Mr. Edwards and congratulated him on the unrivalled structure
his genius had created, and he was heard to say modestly in reply, 'I
trust, with the blessing of God, _this_ bridge will stand,' even Rhys
admitted that, ''Deed, after all, Willem was a great man,' and Thomas
Williams kept close beside him, as if desirous to share in his
employer's glory.

For Mr. Morris, the staunch friend of William Edwards, there with due
ceremony, breaking a bottle of wine upon the parapet, had named the
bridge 'Pont-y-Pridd'--The Bridge of Beauty.

[Illustration: THE BRIDGE OF BEAUTY, 1755.]

And when the loud acclaim had subsided, the speaker gave as a reason for
the name, not alone the wondrous beauty of the structure, or the new
features the self-trained builder had introduced into
bridge-building, but that out of his failures he had built up an
undoubted success, and out of seeming calamities built up another, if an
unseen bridge, to span the turbulent River of Life and bear him securely
across from this world to a better, the beautiful bridge of humble
reliance on the Almighty Creator and Ruler of the universe.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] The largest is nine feet in diameter.




POSTSCRIPT.


From that day William Edwards' fame as a builder of bridges and smelting
works was assured. But he could see defects in his Bridge of Beauty; the
ascent to the centre was steep and toilsome, and although he was
afterwards called upon to erect bridges, not only in Glamorganshire, but
in Carmarthenshire and Brecknockshire, he built no more on the same
model.

His handsome three arched bridge over the Teify is pierced with hollow
cylinders over the piers, adding beauty to strength; but in that as in
others he reduced the height with more regard to the useful than the
picturesque.

He was a busy man, working for his family and the community six days a
week, giving the seventh to divine service amongst his people--services
so highly appreciated that in 1756 he was ordained to preach. And he
was never a rich man, he gave so largely of his earnings to the
suffering poor. And though he must have seen towns springing up around
the ironworks he built, and highroads made to connect them, giving
employment to hundreds of workers, he was nevermore heard to boast of
_his_ doings. He knew and owned that the capital of other men had set
his brains and hands at work.

And when at a ripe old age he was laid to rest under the shade of
Eglwysilan Church and its giant yews, he left his well-trained son David
to inherit his fame and his faculty as a bridge-builder. But he never
built a Pont-y-Pridd, and it is with the bridge and town of Pontypridd
William Edwards' name is mainly associated, even by those who never
recognise in him a pioneer of progress, a benefactor to South Wales.

Indeed, since his day, to meet the increasing traffic, a canal has been
cut from Cardiff northward, and the very course of the River Taff
diverted, changing the character of the district I have attempted to
describe as it was in my hero's day. More recently a railroad to meet
the ever-growing demands of ironmasters, colliery owners, and others,
has been constructed, still further changing the face of the country,
now bristling with iron and tin works. A new bridge has, moreover, been
thrown across the river, somewhat higher up the stream, a bridge more in
accord with modern requirements, and which has in a measure superseded
high-pitched Pont-y-Pridd; but the beautiful old bridge is still
standing, a picturesque monument to the memory of its persevering and
pious builder, and a reminder to this self-sufficient generation, so
proud of its own grand doings, that, but for William Edwards and his
bridges and furnaces, progress in South Wales might have slumbered a
generation or more.


THE END.

PRINTED BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH




_A Selection from Books for Girls._

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     | KEITH'S TRIAL AND VICTORY. By EVELYN
 At  |   EVERETT-GREEN. Illustrated by PAUL HARDY. Gilt edges.
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     | disappointed in her expectations as an heiress, learns nobly
     | her lesson of self-conquest.
-----+------------------------------------------------------------------
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     | The story of a madcap girl in wealthy circumstances, the pranks
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 2/  | volume, gilt top. Illustrated.
     |                                         [THE "ENDEAVOUR" LIBRARY.
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     | HETTY MARTIN'S TRIAL; or, Thorns and Roses.
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-----+------------------------------------------------------------------
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     | CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. A Story of a Convent School. By EMMA LESLIE.
 At  |                                 [THE "WONDERFUL SHILLING" SERIES.
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     | Relates the methods employed in a French Convent School to
     | pervert two English Protestant girls who were sent there for
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-----+------------------------------------------------------------------
 At  | THE KING'S DIADEM. By ANNIE GRAY.
 1/  |                                 [THE "WONDERFUL SHILLING" SERIES.
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     | Is a story for elder girls, and shows how the heroine gave up
     | worldly pleasures to consecrate herself to the Master's work.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

London: THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, 57 and 59 Ludgate Hill, E. C.





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