The Making of William Edwards; or, The Story of the Bridge of Beauty

Meanwhile William had made himself conversant with English. Then, at the instance of Rosser, he procured the works of Sir Isaac Newton, and devoted himself to the study of geometry and kindred sciences with the assiduity of a man bent on success.

Barely had he completed his furnaces for Mr. John Morris when proposals for like work came to him from other quarters, offering him most liberal and gratifying terms.

Then, and not before, did he open out all his heart to Elaine, and, proud of the distinction it implied, pressed her to become his wife before he closed his engagement with his first patron, or entered upon a fresh one which would remove him to a distance.

He had come upon Elaine in the twilight as she stood behind the flap-counter of her uncle's open shop, with a few unsold loaves upon the board, and, elate with the prospect before him, never doubted she who had grown so dear to his heart would gladly put her hand in his to share his rising fortunes.

He drew her closer to him as he stood beside her in the shade, and met with no repulse, for she owned she knew his worth and loved him dearly, but his soaring spirit drooped its wings under a sudden check.

'Nay, nay, dear William,' she said, amid slowly falling tears, 'it cannot be. How I shall miss you, and grieve for you in your absence, there is no telling; but though I can marry no one else, I cannot leave my good uncle and aunt now they are getting into years. They have been all the father and mother I have known.'

'But, my dearest Elaine, do not daughters leave their parents to become wives? I never expected such an answer from you. Surely, when I took that farm in the Aber Valley years ago, had I no deeper meaning than to make my mother and David more comfortable? Had you no suspicion that one day I should want to place my wife there, and make a home for both of us?'

Her tears dropped on the strong hand that held hers in its clasp, but she answered never a word.

'Elaine, dear Elaine,' he went on, 'I can enlarge the homestead, and extend the farm lands, so that your uncle and aunt could live with us all under one roof, if you will but consent.'

'Don't, don't, William dear,' she sobbed. 'It is very, very kind of you, but it would never answer. You must not even suggest such a thing to my uncle. He is proud of his double calling as baker and teacher. How often have you heard him say with pride "he provided food for both body and mind; and no man with both his eyes could do more"? No, you would wound his self-dependence. I honour your good heart, but – I cannot leave them.'

'Is there no one else can take your place, Elaine? How am I to leave you here alone?'

She shook her head. 'They have no one but their married daughter in Bristol. What sort of a wife should I make if I failed in my duty to them? Besides, a wife just now would only cripple your freedom of action. We are both young enough to wait.'

'Young enough if willing.' His obstinate temper was rising.

'If it be God's will, it should be our will.' As she spoke she withdrew from his clasp.

'Look you, Elaine!' he exclaimed, with something of his old passion. 'The more a string is stretched, the sooner it breaks.' And away he went in high displeasure, leaving her standing there faint with her own effort at self-suppression.

It did not rest there. He was persistent. She was firm. And he had neither won her consent to marry, nor come to terms for the construction of fresh smelting works, when another project was on foot, which was to make or mar the man.

I have said that roads were defective, and that bridges were needed to span rivers which cut off communication between town and town, county and county, and shut up the vast mineral wealth of South Wales.

Herbert, the new Lord of Cardiff, had made the Castle his residence, the discoveries in connection with Mr. Pryse having determined him to see with his own eyes, and to delegate irresponsible authority to no one. He strengthened the hands of Mr. Morris in his efforts to utilise the iron and coal of the county, and to provide remunerative work for the depressed population. And he did what he could to improve, not merely the decaying town, but the rest of his vast possessions in Glamorganshire. He soon became keenly alive to the necessity for better communication with his property on the other side of the Taff than that of ferry, or ford, or coracle.

In this he was by no means alone.

Other landowners, magistrates, and men who saw fortunes buried beneath the soil, or losing half their value upon it for want of accessible markets, grumbled and growled on their own hearths, or to each other when they chanced to meet, until the discontent became so general that the heads of the county met in conclave at the Angel Inn in Cardiff, and decided on the erection of a stone bridge over the treacherous Taff.

Then came the question, 'Who should be the builder?'

'There is no better builder whatever in all South Wales than Mr. William Edwards,' said Mr. Morris, with decision.

'Indeed, and that's the truth,' came simultaneously from various speakers.

'But he has never erected a bridge, and he is so very young,' put in another dubiously. 'It will be a work of difficulty. We should engage an architect of established repute.'

'He never put up a mill until he built Owen Wynn's flour-mill, and he never put up a furnace until he built mine,' replied Mr. Morris; 'and you all know what those are. But, young as he is, you may take my word for it he will undertake nothing he is not competent to carry out, and he is certain to accomplish whatever he has set his mind upon.'

A good deal of heated argument followed this speech.

The former speaker adhered to his suggestion that 'some one of more eminence should be engaged – such a man, for instance, as Mr. James Gibbs, an architect of note.'

His lordship shook his head. 'Yes; Mr. Gibbs is an ecclesiastical architect of note, but you require a bridge, not a church, or a' —

'What? That old Scotchman!' burst from impatient lips. 'Did he ever build a bridge? And what should a Scotchman know of our Welsh rivers? And what would he charge?'

That suggestion of an exorbitant cost virtually settled the business before Mr. Morris rose again, and with a wave of the hand to calm the patriotic hubbub, remarked —

'I think, gentlemen, you will have to fall back on Mr. William Edwards. He is confessedly the best builder in all South Wales – a practical builder, not a mere architect. He was but a boy about nine years of age when he told me his father had been drowned in crossing the Eglwysilan ford, and that when he was a big man he would build a bridge there to save other lives. Believe me, he would put his heart into the work. And he is not an alien.'

On the following day, September 16, 1746, three gentlemen, dressed in deep vests, full-skirted coats, and three-cornered hats, more or less in conformity with English wear, presented themselves at the baker's shop, and asked to see Mr. Edwards.

They were shown upstairs into the class-room parlour by Elaine, and then she tapped gently at William's door opposite in the dark passage, and told him he was wanted.

He was at that moment seated, pen in hand, in front of his bureau-desk, with a sheet of paper before him, on which he had begun to indite his acceptance of the smelter's proposal.

Who could be wanting him?

Down went his quill; he thrust his arms into the short-tailed coat hung over his chair back, gave himself a shake, and in less than two minutes he was face to face with Mr. Morris and two strangers, to whom he was formally introduced as Mr. William Edwards. They were magistrates, and men of note in the county, deputed to lay before him the project for bridging over the Taff, and ascertain his willingness to undertake its construction.

Mr. Morris had placed himself in the broad window seat, his friends had drawn a couple of the high-backed chairs between the window and the table to bring them closer together, and as William stood there with the full light of the setting sun upon his somewhat square features, they could perceive him start and rest one strong nervous hand upon the table, whilst his broad nostrils quivered, his bright clear eyes lit up, and his face flushed, only to whiten under the excitement of their proposal, and the remembrance of the unfinished letter upon his desk.

There could be no second thought of his acceptance.

'Willing to undertake it, gentlemen?' he said breathlessly. 'Competent? It has been my dream from boyhood; though I owe the first suggestion to a jesting hint from Mr. Morris. Stay, I will show you.'

In less than three minutes he had fetched from the bureau in the other room – where he left a crumpled-up letter – several drawings of bridges in all stages of architectural finish, from the first rude conception of his youth, to the riper studies of manhood.

By the time his contract with Mr. Morris expired, his design for the proposed bridge had been considered and approved, as also the site, close upon the Eglwysilan ford, midway between Merthyr Tydvil and Cardiff, so as to unite the already beaten road.

He was elate and buoyant over the trust reposed in him; although Rhys, his mother, Davy, and other friends had been called upon to enter into bonds for the fulfilment of his contract, since he was to be paid as the work proceeded.

The intending smelter, desirous to secure his services, consented to wait until he was again at liberty.

The young architect's pride had but one drawback. He could not shake Elaine's fidelity to her uncle and aunt. She would not desert them in their old age.

'It will be better for you to go to this great work unfettered by a wife,' she argued bravely.

But he would not see the personal sacrifice she made, and went off at last in a huff.

'This new business will be his solace,' she said. 'I must be content to do my duty, and leave the rest to God.'

And neither her aunt nor her blind uncle knew the temptation she had resisted for their sakes, though they thought her quieter than before.

She was right. His new business left William little leisure for looking back.

He had gone over to Bristol to engage masons, in addition to those he had already trained, before he finally took leave.