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

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.

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.'