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

Then there was no running back. His first duty was to erect huts or houses for his workpeople and their families; and he took care they were such as should be of service when the temporary purpose was served.

He had long before made John Llwyd his foreman – a good deputy on whom he could rely; just as he could depend on his old friend Robert Jones for the best of stone from the very best local quarries, or for his sand and lime. For the carriage of other matters to and fro he fell back on Robert's active young partner Hughes, for whom the peat-cutter's niece had jilted easy-going Davy.

But ere the foundations of the bridge were laid and firm, the builder had engaged his brother-in-law, Thomas Williams, to supply the wooden frames on which his arches were to be fitted and adjusted. And so, with trustworthy coadjutors like these, the work went on steadily.

At first he had to battle with the deceitful river; but he and his men watched the skies and did their best to prevent disaster, though more than one occurred.

But the resolution of their master seemed infused into the men. If there was any doubt or hazard, he took the tools himself, and wrought until they were ashamed to hang back.

Though he had a farm of his own but two miles or so away, and his brother's farm was close at hand, he occupied one of the new cottages along with Llwyd, and so was always on the spot.

Besides that, he fared almost as his men fared. If a labourer's wife or child fell sick he helped them from his own stores or pocket; and his men worked all the better for his thoughtful kindness.

His bridge-building had brought quite a colony upon the spot, not merely of the workpeople, but of others, who found they had money to spend and wants to be supplied.

Soon he become conscious of another want. The Rev. John Smith, the kind old vicar, had died full of years shortly after Jonet's marriage, and the new vicar did not seem to recognise the strangers as part of his flock. So William, finding the non-observance of the Sabbath led to disorder, called the people round him, and from the Druids' rocking-stone read out portions of Scripture to them, now and then venturing on expositions of his own.

So the weeks and the seasons rounded until at the end of two years there stood a fine three-arched bridge across the river, to be opened with loud acclaim and rejoicing – a bridge the excited guarantors pronounced firm and solid enough to stand as surely for seventy years as seven, the period for which its stability was guaranteed.

'Indeed!' exclaimed the proud young builder. 'It is more likely to stand firm for seven hundred years!'

CHAPTER XXIV.

PONT-Y-PRIDD

It was a glorious day for the self-taught architect. The hanging woods on either bank of the river held nearly as many spectators as trees, whilst along the narrow roads came a motley multitude on foot or horseback, or in cumbrous, top-heavy leather carriages, drawn by four horses (less for state than necessity), poor as well as rich having assembled from all parts to witness the opening of the new bridge that was to do so much for the county.

'To witness my triumph,' William Edwards phrased it. But then, too much diffidence was not the family failing. And, for a self-taught man, it was a triumph.

There was no room for two carriages to pass abreast, but the few there assembled crossed alternately, the Viscount's prancing horses leading the way. Then there was a rush of people, mounted and on foot; horses, ponies, mules, and asses scampering across pell-mell in such wild confusion and entanglement, amid shouts and untranslatable cries, as certainly tested the stability of the structure. And such congratulations greeted the builder as were calculated to turn more seasoned heads than his.

Davy, full of brotherly pride and affection, had brought his mother on a pillion behind him; and there, surrounded by her children and her grandchildren, the old dame, overcome by her emotion in contrasting the present with the past, and witnessing the great work of her son and his reception by the gentry, fairly sobbed aloud, the big tears rolling down her tanned and wrinkled cheeks.

'Name o' goodness, mother, I don't be knowing what you have got to cry for, whatever. People do be looking at you!' remarked Rhys curtly, on a hint from Cate.

''Deed, I do be crying for joy. I never expected to be seeing a day like this.'

'Do leave mother alone, Rhys,' quickly remonstrated Davy in an undertone. 'Her heart do be full, and it must run over, look you.'

Evan Evans and Ales stood by, dressed in their Sunday best for the great occasion, a newly-breeched boy by the hand.

'I do be wishing Jane Edwards would not be washing the new bridge with her tears, Evan – 'deed, I do,' whispered Ales to him.

'Ah, yes, it do be a bad baptism,' he echoed, shaking his head, which had been crammed with superstition on shipboard. 'And I do be hoping the rain will keep off, for the clouds be gathering over Garth Mountain, look you.'

The rain did keep off for two or three hours, until long after the hand-shaking and speech-making were over, and the great people had dispersed, and all who had not stayed behind to feast were on their way homewards, thankful they would be able in future to cross the river dry-shod and out of danger, whatever the hour or the weather, the 'cleverness' of the Widow Edwards' son being on every tongue.

That son, however, had been surfeited with praise, and was moving amongst the crowds in irritable reaction seeking for some one he failed to find – some one whose approbation would have o'ertopped the highest.

At last, when he was ready to bite his lips with vexation, a boy, who came riding hastily from the Cardiff Road, put a letter in his hand, and lingered as if waiting for an answer.

The writing was Elaine's.

The letter was torn open impatiently.

Only a few blotted words: —

'Dear Friend, – We hear your meritorious work is complete, and send you our heartfelt greetings; but we are in great trouble, for Uncle Rosser had a fit last night, and has not spoken since. Aunt is full of grief. She has sent to Bristol for my cousin, for the apothecary says uncle cannot live. You will pardon our absence to-day; and believe me, your sincere well-wisher,

    'Elaine Parry.'

Two hours later he had left the feasters and was in the saddle, muffled in a thick riding-coat, speeding on to Cardiff through driving rain and the darkening shades of evening.

When he drew rein at the baker's door he was too late for all but consolation. The blind man had opened his long-closed eyes on the glorious wonders of eternity.

Never had Elaine felt so much the need of his strong arm and self-reliant individuality as then, in their overwhelming affliction. His unexpected arrival touched a sensitive chord and broke down the barriers between them. She sprang towards him, and clung to him weeping, as she had never done before.

Amazement checked the flow of Mrs. Rosser's tears for the moment; and when he put out his hand to grasp hers, she too felt there was a strong friend to rely on in their extremity.

Then was it first observed that he was wringing wet; and in hospitable cares for the long absent, the first acuteness of pain was something blunted.

After that, as if he had been Mrs. Rosser's own son, he took all miserable details off their feminine hands. It was he, too, who met the daughter – Mrs. Elton – and her Bristolian husband on their arrival, and broke the distressing intelligence to them.

Death involves changes. No sooner was the dead laid in the earth than the desirability of the widow's future residence with her daughter was openly discussed. Consideration for Elaine appeared the only obstacle to the plan.

'I am quite willing to make a home for my mother-in-law,' said Mr. Elton in private to Mr. Edwards, with a show of self-complacent liberality, much as though he patted himself on the back for a praiseworthy sacrifice, ignoring the savings of years likely to bear her company; 'but I cannot consent to burden myself with the young woman. And she cannot really expect it. She is no relation of mine or my wife's. She must look out for a situation. She quite blocks the way to an amicable adjustment of affairs,' he added irritably.

William speedily removed that block out of their way.

'Do not trouble yourself about Elaine, sir,' put in William stiffly. 'There has been a situation waiting for her over two years.'

Mr. Elton opened his eyes. 'Indeed!'

'Yes, sir. Two years back I pressed her to become my honoured wife, but her strong, sense of duty constrained her to repress her own inclinations, and send me away wifeless rather than desert her aunt and uncle in their old age. You can adjust your affairs irrespective of Elaine Parry, I can assure you. A good home and a loving welcome await her.'

Mr. Elton was snubbed, and looked it.

In less than three months there was a very quiet wedding at Cardiff, and Elaine went away with her husband to his farm, midway between his bridge and the ruined Castle of Caerphilly, where his old mother and Davy lived, within easy reach of Jonet and her husband. The few houses have multiplied since then into a village that bears the name of Aber.

At first old Mrs. Edwards felt as if she was to be a second time deposed. And she expected Elaine's town ways would clash with her country ones. But when she found that Elaine deferred to her as she had done to her own aunt, and was desirous to be instructed in all that pertained to her duties on the farm, there was no word too good for her 'clever son William's clever wife.'

Then she could already knit and spin, and had brought her own wheel, as well as a shelf of books, and something in hard cash, so that, as Davy said, she was 'quite an acquisition on the farm.'

William had built the house according to his enlarged ideas of domestic comfort. There were two storeys, and notwithstanding the very heavy tax on glass, it shone in every window, and these were of useful size. He had brought home along with his wife the bureau he had found so useful for his papers, and kept them and his books in a room set apart for himself.

With the completion of the bridge, he abandoned to John Llwyd the cottage he had erected on the river's side, his new furnace work being within sufficiently accessible distance of the farm, so long as he could leave his efficient foreman on the spot, and his workmen also. He was glad then he had erected permanent and commodious houses for the men, instead of temporary huts, since there was still employment for them all. Explorations for iron and coal were going on in the vicinity. These created a fresh demand for labour, and a corresponding demand for roofs to shelter the newcomers.

As he beheld the new colony of labourers and managers rising up, as it were, under his auspices, his heart swelled with pride and self-sufficient inflation.