The Making of William Edwards; or, The Story of the Bridge of Beauty

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.