CHAPTER XIX. WITH GRANDFATHER'S GOLD.
Had the paper handed to Mrs. Edwards contained a burning fuse to set the whole homestead ablaze and lay it in ashes, it could scarcely have created greater consternation.
The grin on the bearer's face and his mother's shriek of dismay brought William down from his ladder in haste, and sent the lad John Llwyd off at racing speed to carry the alarm of unknown calamity to the rest.
One by one came Rhys, Davy, and Jonet rushing into the house, to find their mother, with her apron thrown over her head, rocking herself to and fro on the old grandfather's armchair, wringing her hands and moaning in the extremity of distress, that to them seemed inexplicable.
'Oh that I should be living to see this day! Oh that things should ever be coming to this pass! Sure to goodness it will be the death of me!'
William, by her side, was endeavouring to master the legal jargon of a document in his hands; while Ales, with arms and apron wet from the washtub, was bending over her mistress, and doing her rough best to check the outburst of grief after her own pithy fashion.
'Name o' goodness, Jane Edwards, you do be taking on as if Mr. Pryse was God Almighty! Sure the battle's not lost before it do be fought. 'Deed, you couldn't fret worse if Rhys had been carried off like my Evan. Look to God, mistress; His breath can shrivel up Mr. Pryse like a leaf in an east wind.'
But the shock was too new for immediate consolation. Philosophy is no plaister for a raw wound.
Meanwhile William had tossed the 'notice' across the table to Rhys, with the remark, on which he set his strong, white teeth, 'The skinny old kite has whetted his beak, and do be thinking to tear us with his talons; but, if I don't be cutting his claws for him before the year runs out, my name's not William Edwards.'