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 gratitude 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 God 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. God'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 God 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 God!' 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.
LONG-LOST EVAN HAD COME BACK.—See page 252.
'Ay, ay, it's me for certain,' was answered cheerily, as the sturdy, 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 God 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?'
'Oh yes. Willem found grandfather's will, and the lease do be left to Rhys; but no lease can we be finding anywhere.'
'Where have you been looking?'
All sorts of likely and unlikely places were named.
'My first master kept his lease in the Bible. Did you look there?'
'Indeed, yes, Evan,' came from Mrs. Edwards, with a disheartened sigh; 'I turned over every leaf.'
'Oh, I do mean under the old cloth cover. He kept his there.'
A moment of breathless astonishment—a general rise from the table!
Mrs. Edwards was down on her knees unlocking the coffer.
In another minute the Bible was out; the stout cloth cover ripped off. There lay the parchment, flat and clean, as when laid there years upon years before by hands now in the clasp of death.
'Thank God!' cried Mrs. Edwards, still upon her knees. 'My children, the finger of God is in this. Our search did be vain till He did send His own messenger to point it out. As Ales did say, God's finger is stronger than man's arm; strong to save. Let us once more thank Him.'
The relief had been overpowering. The thanksgiving was strong and deep. The reaction was too great almost for speech. The dinner, nearly cold, was eaten in silence; but it was the silence of hopefulness, not despair.
It was followed by a clattering and chattering of loosened tongues, guesses at Mr. Pryse's consternation on the morrow, and questionings of Evan's disappearance and adventures, which we may leave that morrow to answer.
* * * * *
Mean though he was through every fibre of his being, Mr. Pryse was lavish in regard to his own creature comforts. Yet even many of these he contrived to obtain gratuitously from tenants who loved him little and feared him much, or from obsequious sea-captains whose cargo was not altogether coal or iron, captains who had goods to bring ashore without compliments to Custom House officers. And those were anything but days of free trade.
He sat at ease between a cosy fire, which cost him nothing, and a round breakfast-table on which were the remains of chicken, ham, and eggs, all of which were equally cheap. A fragrant aroma of Mocha coffee yet lingered around the foreign china cup and saucer and coffee-pot, none of which had paid duty to England's monarch, any more than the Barcelona silk handkerchief cast lightly over the knee he was indolently nursing on the other, whilst he leaned back in his tall chair picking his teeth, and a smile of uttermost self-content and enjoyment creased the parchment-like skin into folds under his wicked old eyes.
'Yes,' said he, half aloud to himself; 'out they go to-morrow, stock and lot! And let them get another farm where they can. Lease, indeed'—and he chuckled. 'If they could find any lease to show, there would have been no sending of cows and sheep and grain to market. Ah, yes, I shall soon pay off my old score to that fellow who drowned himself like a fool. Yes, and get a higher rent, now that building son of his has enlarged the homestead.'
The chuckle had not died out of his skinny throat when the door opened, and he caught his breath, for a special messenger from his lordship, booted and spurred, like one who rides in haste, entered unannounced, and with the simple remark that he 'had rather a rough passage across the Severn from Bristol that morning, and found the air raw and cold,' presented a sealed packet, marked 'Immediate and important.'
Had he said he crossed in a Revenue cutter, Mr. Pryse might not so readily have taken the hint thrown out.
As it was, he apologised for the coldness of the breakfast, and from a private cabinet produced a bottle of genuine Hollands—which had never gone through a Custom House—and, setting them before his unexpected visitor, invited him to help himself.
'I trust his lordship is well?' he said blandly, but quite as a matter of course.
'No; he was dangerously ill when I left,' came from the courier, with startling bluntness.
What? His easy-going master ill! perhaps dying! Mr. Pryse turned ashen grey. 'You don't say so!' he ejaculated with a gasp, his fingers trembling, as he at last unfolded the despatch and began to read, hardly conscious that the man, smacking his lips over the fiery Hollands, had been watching him all along with keen, observant eyes.
With all Mr. Pryse's self-command the paper rattled in his fingers as he read. It was not a lengthy epistle, and only the signature was his lordship's; the letter was from his son and heir. Its sole purport was to prevent injustice, as the act of a dying man.
In stern and peremptory words it forbade Simon Pryse to harass or disturb the Widow Edwards in her holding, since he must know it was leased for three lives, and would not fall in until the demise of William Edwards' eldest son, then living. Moreover, he was commanded to refund, from his own purse, all excess rent he had extorted from the widow, yet not included in his accounts. And he was required to furnish a true and just statement of all the moneys in his hands and all his dealings and transactions in his lordship's name, not omitting the share he was said to have taken in the abduction of one Evan Evans, seven years prior to that date.
'It shall be done,' said Mr. Pryse hoarsely, as the messenger rose to depart, fully satisfied with the result of his observations.
'Yes, it shall be done!' cried the infuriated agent, when the man was gone, springing to his feet with a tremendous oath. 'But not as his lordship or his lordship's heir proposes. Shall I forego the revenge I have nursed for years, when a few hours will bring the hated tribe within my grip? No; I will set my feet upon their necks if I die for it!' and another fierce anathema parted those thin lips of his.
All on a sudden he stopped short, and bit his long nails viciously. 'Has some one turned traitor?' he murmured between set teeth. 'Those poor farming idiots could not get a letter to his lordship's hand. No matter. The bolt has fallen sooner than I expected, but trust me to be taken unprepared. It has fallen in the nick of time. In another hour the Cambria would have sailed.'
Upstairs, three steps at a time like a boy, he ran, exulting in his own crafty schemes for outwitting justice; drew his blue and white check curtain quite across his bedroom window—a preconcerted signal to the Cambria's skipper—changed his kerseymere smalls for his leather riding breeches, and was downstairs in his private office as usual, yet not as usual. He was on his knees before his strong box and his golden god.
In his guilty knowledge and his craftiness, he had years before prepared for flight on emergency. He had lodged a portion of his filchings in Wood's Gloucester Bank, under a fictitious name. Yet as there was no other provincial bank at that time in all England and Wales, and no bank notes under £20 value, exchange was not easy. Rents, etc., were paid in specie. Specie also was transmitted to his lordship under strict guard. Whenever an opportunity occurred, the agent converted coin into notes, and packed them in the waistband of his leather breeches. Still, coin had accumulated in his strong box, always packed close, and secured with triple locks, ready for removal on short notice, though its weight belied its bulk.
The signal brought the skipper. There was already a tacit understanding between the worthy pair, and their conference was brief. Arrangements were made for the Cambria to drop down the river with the evening tide, and lay to outside in the bay. Fain would the skipper have Mr. Pryse go aboard with his strong box, and make all sail at once.
No, no; he was not willing to forego his revenge or the prospect of adding a succession of rents to his ill-gotten gains; so a four-oared boat was to meet him at Taff's Well landing-place up the river on the morrow, and await his coming—ay, even until midnight.
His impish friends, Avarice and Malice, were more potent advisers than the wary skipper; so, with a shrug of the shoulders, he withdrew, and obeyed.
'That's a heavy load you've got, messmates,' called a sailor to the two others conveying to the schooner the strong box, covered with tarpaulin, as if to protect it from the rain. But they merely answered, 'Ay, ay,' and declined assistance.
The afternoon was then far spent, but two horses stood at the door, and in a few minutes Mr. Pryse, booted and spurred, and cased in a long riding-coat, was in the saddle, the flaps of his three-cornered hat let down, as was commonly the case in wet weather, so as to convert it into a broad-brimmed slouch, a pair of saddle-bags slung before him, likewise holsters, fitted with pistols, carefully loaded.
He trotted away from the door he was never to see again, with a lie on his lips to his housekeeper, and, followed by his less elaborately-accoutred attendant, took the new Merthyr Tydvil Road, which not only ran parallel with the river in a direct line wherever practicable, but avoided the long detour by Caerphilly, where no rents would be paid until the Martinmas Fair.
He had rents, and more than rents, to collect as he stopped at wayside houses, or so-called inns, off and on the direct road, and was not to be denied, though a day before due. So he managed to pocket some heavy cash before, at a late hour, he stopped for the night under the shadow of cliff-seated Castel Coch, to dry his drenched overcoat, eat a hearty supper, and retire to rest, leaving orders that he was to be in the saddle by daybreak in the morning.
He was in a desperate hurry to transact his pleasant bit of business with Mrs. Edwards, but could not forbear grasping at all the coin he could by the way, never thinking that the overreaching hand is apt to grasp at shadows.