PROPER TOOLS.
Ales had resumed her work on the farm, but not with the spirit and
vivacity of old. She had been wont to sing over her work, and had a
store of old Welsh ballads in her memory. But the song-bird mourned in
silence for the mate torn away so ruthlessly, and, as weeks and months
and years rolled on in the same drear monotony of hopelessness, her
heart grew colder and heavier, and her prayers became as the very
wailings of despair.
It cut her to the soul to hear Rhys grumbling, as he did, at the money
filched from them to pay, not only the rent Evan should have paid, but
the heavy costs of a seizure in addition; and she more than once
resolved to quit the farm when the year expired.
Second thoughts, however, suggested that nothing would suit the young
man better, and his very grumbling might have that end in view; for,
once rid of her, he could seek the necessary consent to bring in a wife
with a good grace.
He had not improved in temper, certainly. It had irritated him to hear
William lauded for the very proclivities he had held of so small
account, nay, turned into ridicule.
It was no satisfaction to have a brother so much younger competent to
enlarge and raise the walls of the sheepfold, as he did, before a second
winter set in. What though a mason's charges were saved, was not the
saving at the greater cost of his own supremacy?
And in the long winter nights when he and Davy sorted fleeces or combed
the wool, or tended the dye-pot on the fire; when Ales taught Jonet to
twirl the flaxen thread drawn from the distaff, so as to set the spindle
dancing on the floor to the tune of the mother's industrious
spinning-wheel, how it tried his patience to see William making figures
and calculations on a board, with chalk or ruddle by the light of the
candle, whilst the knitting-pins, which should have been earning money,
lay idle by his side.
There are men ready to perform generous acts, who are flagrantly unjust,
but cannot see it. Robert Jones had urged Rhys Edwards to 'be just.' He
should have said 'be generous,' and Rhys might have responded to the
appeal. He resented the imputation of injustice.
Yet he denied to his brother the meed of praise his service merited; he
begrudged him the time to acquire the common rules of simple arithmetic;
perhaps because he felt it was a step to something beyond his own
attainment. He counted not the money saved in masonry as money earned.
He might have been content had William been as passively submissive as
Davy and Jonet, but he found in him a spirit boldly daring to cope with
his own, and it stung him to find the boy upheld in his resistance.
So years crept on. The third winter passed, the snows melted, the roads
were free for traffic, the river sang a paean to approaching spring, the
pink and brown buds were bursting into green, song birds were flitting
and fluttering about the eaves and boughs, all was life and activity
upon the farm. The _Osprey_ had never again put into port at Cardiff,
where Mr. Pryse bit his nails and snarled more cantankerously than ever,
and nothing had been heard of Evan. Ales lost heart, she did not sing
with the birds; but William, no longer snubbed, worked on the farm with
the best, until another barrier rose between himself and Rhys, in the
shape of another stone wall.
Hedges have now superseded walls in many parts of Glamorganshire; but at
the date of this narrative, the fields and lanes were universally
bounded by what are known as '_dry walls_,' and still they serve as
fences on the uplands.
By 'dry walls' are to be understood walls built without mortar or
cement, of irregular, unhewn flagstones, so put together, so wedged in
one with another, as to stand firm where a cemented wall might give way
exposed to the high winds of those elevated regions, the very crevices
allowing the blasts to pass through, and so reduce the pressure on the
mass. Such are the walls in Craven and other parts of northern England.
Yet it is no uncommon thing for the coping-stones to be hurled away in
a fierce gale, or for large portions of such walls to be blown down, as
came to pass on Brookside Farm that gusty spring.
Here was an opportunity for William to turn his talent to account and
save his mother's pocket, as be sure he did.
So far, so good. Rhys made no objection, and Mrs. Edwards was well
pleased. Davy had begun to feel proud of his brother.
But it so happened that Robert Jones, whose window had long before been
fitted in by William, came to seek his services, not merely to repair a
breach, but to enclose a portion of ground as a stone yard.
Rhys, then engaged sowing barley on last year's turnip ground, looked as
black as two thunder-clouds rolled into one, and without mincing his
words gave a decided refusal.
'Willem is not a public stonemason, Robert Jones. He is now dibbling in
the potato-sets, and cannot be spared. You asked me to "be just"; do you
think you are just in seeking to draw him away from the farm at this
busy season?' and with a very strong oath he swore 'Willem should _not_
build walls for him or any one else.'
But the leader of the peat-cutter's team happened to carry a resonant
bell, as did the leading beast of all packhorse teams, in order to warn
other teamsters, or the drivers of cattle or carriages, that the narrow
roadway was blocked, and one or the other must wait in the nearest
broadened space provided as a refuge until the advancing team had
passed and left the road clear. Such open grassy spots may still be seen
in England's narrow by-ways, and there gipsies make their camps. Nay,
even in the heart of busy London, old Paternoster Row is so provided
with spaces where two carts may pass abreast.
The bell, set ringing through the clear March air with every motion of
the mule's head, brought William leaping over runnel, ridge and furrow,
and dividing fence to greet his old and true friend.
The voice of Rhys, ever loud and authoritative, now raised and vehement,
reached William as he came bounding along.
'Who says I shall not build walls for any one?' he cried. 'I _will_, and
no one here shall stop me. Do you think I mean to dig and delve all my
life, and be labourer to you?'
'Labourer to me, you jackanapes? Do you think your intermittent labour
pays for your sustenance? But if you quit the farm this day to go
wall-building, you may quit it altogether. I am not going to wear my
life away to support you in idleness. Cyphering at night, piling up
stones by day, rambling off to Caerphilly Castle when you should be at
work--what sort of labour do you call that?'
'Head-work; of no account with you. But, look you, I'll go and come as I
please, and build walls if I please. And I don't be owning you for
master. If we can but find the old lease, it may turn out the youngest
son is heir and not the eldest. But let me tell you that for the toss
up of a silver penny I'd quit the farm for ever, only I know that's what
you do be wanting. You would be glad to get either me or Ales out to
make room for Cate. But while we stay, mother do be mistress, and shall
be.'
For a moment Rhys seemed dumbfounded. Then he sprang upon his brother,
and grappled with him as if he would have borne him to the earth.
The fifteen years lad was thick set and sturdy, and stood his ground
well, but he was no match for the man of more toughened frame and
indurated muscle.
It would have gone badly with the younger had not the turf-cutter
interposed, and, by sheer force, thrust them apart.
'What!' cried he, 'are you two brothers so jealous of each other you
would strive like Cain and Abel? Shame on you both! Would you bring
death and sorrow on your mother's hearth once more?'
They stood panting, but abashed, as he proceeded--
'Surely, what with one loss after another--the rent money unaccounted
for when Evan disappeared, the cruel bill for costs, the raising of the
rent, the missing lease--the poor widow do be passing through a sea of
trouble, with cares enough to drown her, without you two, who should be
her help and comfort, adding to the load. Are you not ashamed?'
'It be Rhys' fault!' 'It be Willem's fault!' they cried simultaneously,
alike moved by the reference to their mother, whom they loved with deep
affection.
'You are alike to blame. Each one has some reason on his side; but, let
me tell you, lads, it is always the one most in the wrong who is the
last to give in. Now, shake hands and be friends. I came here thinking
to be doing you all a service, for it would pay better for Willem to be
building walls than doing common field-work. But I don't be wanting to
breed dissension between you, so I will be getting Morgan the stonemason
to build my wall.'
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.