The Making of William Edwards Part 26

But it does not specify the terms or the date of the lease, and _there_ Mr. Pryse has the advantage. He may know of some clause you have infringed.'

William sighed heavily. 'Then there will be no hope for us. It will break poor mother's heart, in truth it will. We don't believe his lordship knows a word. If I could but get to see him. But there, Mr.

Pryse would stop that!' and he rose to depart.

'Stay, stay!' cried Mr. Morris; 'maybe I can help you at this pinch.

Find me pen, ink, and paper, Mr. Smith.'

William looked on in bewilderment whilst the quill of Mr. Morris went squeaking across the paper, or he nibbled the feather end of the pen in a pause for thought, or for an answer to a question.

After a time, which to William appeared hours, he threw the paper across the table to the vicar.

'There,' said he, 'is a brief statement of the case, as detailed to me.

If you find it correct, pray both of you affix your signatures. It shall be my care _that_ reaches his lordship's own hand, though he is now at Court, and time is short. If you leave the will in our good vicar's charge, I will make a fair copy and enclose it, along with some private intelligence of my own concerning Mr. Pryse. Good-night, young man. Tell your mother not to be downhearted.'

CHAPTER XX.

IN THE NICK OF TIME.

'Name o' goodness, what be keeping Willem out so late?' said his mother, peering out into the night. 'I do hope he have not been stopping at the inn again, and him with that will in his pocket. He do be getting very unsteady since he has been having those big places to build.'

"Deed, his sudden rise do be turning his head. He may have as sudden a fall one of these days,' was the commentary of Rhys.

But when William came in half an hour later, as steady and sober as his brothers, and explained satisfactorily how he chanced to be so very late, there was nothing but the voice of grat.i.tude to be heard. He had left the vicarage almost choked by his own inarticulate thanks.

'It was quite providential that Mr. Morris did be staying at the vicarage,' said Mrs. Edwards. 'He do be a great man, sure, and kind.'

'Yes, yes, and it was providential that _I_ went to consult the vicar, instead of Rhys. Mr. Morris would be knowing nothing of _him_, whatever,' added William, rather proudly.

It was true that his uncommon success was making him somewhat self-sufficient. But so Rhys had been, with less reason.

The weeks crept slowly on one after another.

At the new mill, mason and millwright congratulated each other on hazardous difficulties overcome. The roof was on to the last flag. The arched tunnel was strong and firm. The machinery worked well, and the wheel went merrily round. When the painters cleared away their paint pots, they could hand the key to the miller in triumph.

At the farm, hope had given way to doubt, and doubt was sinking into despair. The prayer of faith was timid and wavering. Only another day remained before the dreaded 9th of October, and as yet nothing had been heard either from Mr. Morris or the vicar, or from his lordship.

Impending evil took the gloss off William's satisfaction.

The morning of Tuesday the 8th broke dull, dreary, and depressing, with a heavy mist on the mountain and in the valley, which, towards eight o'clock, resolved itself into a drizzling rain, that made the cattle hang their heads and the sheep huddle together for mutual comfort.

In view of contingencies, the farm stock had been reduced by sale below ordinary limits, and well-disposed neighbours had offered temporary houseroom and shelter amongst them for both family and anything movable.

Thomas Williams cleared out his large attic for their accommodation, and Robert Jones promised to keep his team in readiness to remove household goods or newly-gathered crops at a moment's notice.

Nothing was being done on the farm but what common care for the living, biped and quadruped, rendered necessary. But a general ransack of house and barns was going on for the discovery of the missing lease, and everything was topsy-turvy. Never had the storeroom had such a turn-out for years. Red-eyed Jonet and Cate ripped open beds and pillows, turned over sacks, dived among fleeces. For the twentieth time Mrs. Edwards emptied the great oak chest, and turned over the leaves of the large old Bible, her face grey and set like a rock.

Ales alone bore a cheerful countenance, and baked the week's bread as in the ordinary course.

'Look you, Jane Edwards,' she said, 'it's no use fretting and fuming.

What G.o.d wills we must bear. But there's no need to be putting the burden on one's own back before He bids one take it up.'

Mrs. Edwards sighed heavily. 'Ah, yes, Ales, true it is; but a good servant need never seek good service. We may seek far for a good farm.'

'You don't be turned off this yet. And it's my firm belief you will be keeping the farm in spite of old Pryse. G.o.d's finger is stronger than man's arm. You wait and be patient. I've not been dreaming of Evan night after night for nothing. He seems to say, "I'm coming, I'm coming;" and I feel as if G.o.d was bringing him back, look you. I do!'

'Ah, poor, foolish Ales! your longings do create your dreams. Evan be as far to seek as our lease.'

'May be so, and may be not. I do be feeling as if he was as near and as warm almost as the loaf just baked, look you. And I feel, I feel'--

'You do _look_ half out of your mind, Ales,' said Mrs. Edwards, in grave rebuke, rising from her hopeless quest and locking the coffer again.

'This be no time to talk of foolish dreams.'

'Mother,' called Jonet from the bedroom they were searching, 'there be a strange man with a bundle on a stick coming over the stile, and he's dripping wet.'

Ales screamed, darted out by the open door, and before Mrs. Edwards could follow she was clasped in the arms of a rough-looking fellow, and crying out, 'I knew, I knew! Thank G.o.d!' In another moment she was sobbing and laughing hysterically on his breast in the reaction of her strange excitement.

'Name o' goodness, that never do be you, Evan?' burst from Mrs. Edwards in unmitigated amazement.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LONG-LOST EVAN HAD COME BACK.--_See page 252._]

'Ay, ay, it's me for certain,' was answered cheerily, as the st.u.r.dy, unshaved man brushed past her, carrying his limp sweetheart into the kitchen and grandfather's stiff-backed chair, heedless of the wet trail he left upon the floor.

Picture the excitement. Strong-minded Ales in hysterics! Jonet and Cate rushing about wildly, and shouting out that long-lost Evan had come back! William and Rhys hurrying in, astonished and delighted, followed by Davy, for once in a hurry; and Evan, loth to release Ales, puzzled to find hands for them all to shake at once, and equally puzzled how to compose Ales, who is sobbing and laughing by turns.

Housewifely instinct, or a peculiar fume in her nostrils, acts as a restorative. 'The bread's burning,' she gasps and Cate presses forward to the rescue of the scorching loaves, forgotten in the confusion and excitement.

Then follows a string of questions, huddled one upon another, but before any one can be answered, Mrs. Edwards says dolefully, 'Ah, Evan, we be thankful to see you back, but you have come on a sad day for all that.'

'Have I? Then, 'deed, it had nearly been a sadder for in coming across the ford, I either mistook my depth, or the water is rising, for it came up to my waistband, and nearly carried me off my feet. But I'm not to be drowned, that's clear, till I've settled with that old rogue Pryse,' he says, with an emphasis and a look that are in themselves anathemas.

'Ah, I told you so,' cries Ales. 'Woe to the man that makes a hundred sad!' but in the midst of an affirmative chorus comes an interruption in the shape of the old brown house-dog, wagging his tail and dropping a big bundle wrapped in sailcloth at the feet of Evan, then jumping up to ask for recognition and thanks.

It is then seen that Evan is standing in a pool of water, whereupon Mrs.

Edwards orders him off to change his wet clothes for the dry ones in his bundle, whilst she and the other women bestir themselves to set the dinner on the table, Ales making all sorts of blunders in the process.

It is by no means a common dinner on a Welsh farm table at that period, although it only comprises pork, potatoes, and greens, boiled in the same pot with the dough dumplings. Mrs. Edwards marks it out reverently as they take their seats.

'Let us be thanking Almighty G.o.d that the good food provided for our last dinner under this roof should have become, by His blessing, a thanksgiving feast; for the one supposed dead do be alive again, the one lost do be found.'

The general 'Amen' was peculiarly solemn, and it occurred to Evan that for a thanksgiving there was more of sorrow than gladness.

Then the first greeting of Mrs. Edwards recurred to him, coupled with the remark about a 'last dinner'; and though the savour was appetising, and his fast had been long, he could not have touched a morsel until his doubts were resolved. He put his question, and was speedily answered by more than one voice--

'Oh, Evan, we cannot find our lease, and Mr. Pryse be going to drive us off the farm to-morrow.'

It was his turn to look solemn. "Deed, and that do be bad. You do have a lease, sure to goodness?'