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half-year's rent had been a second time withdrawn, with exorbitant costs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.