Twm overtakes an old acquaintance. Sad news from Tregaron. Outwits
another highwayman, and rides off with his horse.
TWM, though naturally elated with his good fortune, did not suffer it to
overcome his caution for the rest of the journey; and as he found himself
no less than seventy-four miles from London, he calculated on many more
attacks before he should reach it. He was sent for next morning by the
mayor of Marlborough, who had heard of his adventure, and required to
bring the horse with him, which he had so adroitly won. Many gentlemen
having assembled at the entrance of the town-hall, our hero appeared in
all the pride of a conqueror, mounted on his goodly steed; their hats
were doffed, and loud shouts of applause immediately given. It was soon
ascertained by the mayor and the gentlemen present, that the horse was
regularly bred to the road, and instructed by a highwayman, therefore,
not as first conjectured, the property of any person deprived of it by
one of these free-faring gentry: consequently, the mayor, with many
compliments on his cleverness, told our hero that the horse was his own
by right of conquest; but that if he was inclined to part with it, he
would give fifty pounds for it. Twm directly assented, and the money was
paid to him the same morning.
Learning there was to be a fair next day at Hungerford, a town ten miles
further on, he resolved to walk there with a view of purchasing a
substitute for his lost pony, as he judged his original mode of
travelling, although the least comfortable, the most secure that he could
adopt. About three miles out of Hungerford, he saw before him a
pig-drover with a large herd of porkers, that he alternately cursed in
the ancient British tongue, and cut up with a whip, while at intervals
between these amusing recreations he loudly sang or roared certain scraps
of Welsh songs. Twm’s ear was quick in recognizing the well-known voice,
and he soon stood side by side with his old friend Wat the mole-catcher.
After mutual expressions of wonder and congratulation, Twm eagerly asked
him how his mother was, as well as Farmer Cadwgan and his daughter
Gwenny. Wat replied that his mother and her husband were well; but
instead of answering the latter part of his question, enquired his
adventures since he left Tregaron. Twm, with animated vanity, ran over
that brief portion of his history, occasionally heightening the colour of
events, according to the general practice of story-tellers from time
immemorial; dwelling particularly on his fortunate preservation of the
lady of Ystrad Fîn, and the benefits which accrued to him in consequence,
from the liberality of Sir George Devereux, whose confidential agent he
then was, on business of the utmost importance, to London.
After practising to his utmost to astonish Wat with the riches and vast
consideration of his “friend” Sir George, Twm very conceitedly observed,
“Well Wat, were he ten times as rich and powerful, I should never envy
him anything he possessed, but one lovely piece of property.” “And what
might that be?” asked Wat. “Why,” replied the other, “could I once
forget poor Gwenny Cadwgan, which I never can, I should envy him the
possession of his charming young wife, the beautiful lady of Ystrad
Fîn—the finest, the handsomest, and cleverest woman I ever saw! and
although now married to a second husband, she is little more than
three-and-twenty years of age. But I was asking of my old sweetheart
Gwenny, poor Gwenny Cadwgan.”—“Poor Gwenny Cadwgan indeed!” sighed Wat,
interrupting him. The pathetic and mysterious manner in which the
mole-catcher spoke this, alarmed our hero and produced an instant change
in his manner; “What of her Wat,” cried he eagerly, “is any thing the
matter? tell me quickly, for heaven’s sake!” Wat answered in a tone of
greater feeling than any one would have believed him to possess, “She is
dead, Twm—dead, and in her cold grave, these four months past. God
forgive you, if you have sent her to it, but you alone have the blame of
it at Tregaron.” This intelligence was a thunderbolt to our hero; his
agony appeared insupportable, as he sat on the road side to indulge it,
till tears came to his relief, which at length flowed abundantly. It was
not till after they were lodged for the night at Hungerford that Twm
found himself capable of questioning his friend further on this unhappy
subject, when he was informed that the fair Gwenny Cadwgan had declined
in health from day to day, pining, it was said, with secret grief, the
cause of which she refused to discover, even to her father; but it soon
came out, for Death hastened to her relief, and she died a mother: a
premature mother, it is true, and her infant was buried in the same grave
with its ill-used broken-hearted, youthful parent.
Hitherto, mental suffering had never been a long guest with our hero; but
now, in proportion to his affection for the departed fair one, was his
remorse, his self-accusing reflections for his neglect of the fond heart
he had won, and the ruin he had brought on one whom he had found so
happy. He became ill, and incapable of pursuing his journey the next
day, when Wat left him, expressing a hope that he would soon be able to
overtake him, that they might enter London together.
He remained three days at Hungerford before he was sufficiently recovered
to pursue his journey; at the end of which time, being still at a loss
for a horse, on enquiring for an animal of a humble description, he was
directed to an old pedlar, who had failed to dispose of a wretched thing
of his at the fair. On going with him down a green lane where he had
left it grazing, he was not a little surprized to find the creature
offered to him for sale to be no other than his own mountain pony, left
in exchange with the highwayman, having on its back the identical
pack-saddle, in which he had formerly concealed his money. Too depressed
in spirits to enter into any detail on the subject, having merely learnt
that the pedlar had taken it in exchange for goods from a traveller, Twm
purchased both pony and pack-saddle for the small sum of twelve
shillings, and immediately set off on his journey.
Alive to the importance of the trust reposed in him, and the danger he
ran of being robbed, these considerations had the effect of dissipating
his melancholy, and setting him somewhat on his mettle. Well for him it
was, that he could so rouse his dormant energies, for by the time that he
was within ten miles of Reading, in Berkshire, anxiously hoping to reach
it without disaster, the sudden discharge of a pistol, close to his ear,
convinced him he was in the centre of danger. Instantly a horseman well
mounted rode fiercely down a lane that entered the road, and ordered him
to stop and deliver in one minute, or have his brains scattered on the
hedge beside him.
Our hero’s presence of mind never forsook him, and now stood his friend
in an especial manner. Assuming an air of clownish simplicity, he
replied, “Laud bless ye master, I ha gotten nothing to deliver, but an
old testament, a crooked sixpence, and a broken fish-hook, and—and—”
“And what, you prevaricating young scoundrel!” roared the highwayman,
“why this purse,” continued Twm, “which uncle Timothy gave I to market
for him and pay his bills at Reading to-morrow;” producing at the same
time, an old stocking, which he had stuffed with old nails and
cockle-shells, in order to make a jingle. The robber made a grasp at the
supposed well-stocked purse, which Twm dexterously evaded, and flung the
purse over the hedge into the adjoining field, and riding on, while the
former instantly alighted, blustering out a fund of oaths and bullying
threats, as he made his way to the field to search for the coveted
treasure.
Aware that on his poor pony he could not but be soon overtaken, and
perhaps shot, by the disappointed freebooter, Twm felt that a daring act
requiring the firmest resolution was to be instantly performed to ensure
his safety, and proceeded immediately to its achievement. The knight of
the road, when he alighted, threw his bridle over a hedgestake; Twm
abandoning his pony for the second time, watched the robber into the
field, crawled along the ditch till he reached his horse, which he
instantly seized by the bridle, mounted and rode off in a hot gallop,
till he got safe into the ancient town of Reading, as the clear-toned
bells of St. Lawrence were chiming their last evening peal.