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

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.'

'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.