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.