“So you be here again prowling about on father’s lands?”
Cousin Henry knew at once the voice of that bitter enemy of his, young Cantor; and, wretched as he was, he felt also something of the spirit of the landlord in being thus rebuked for trespassing on his ground. “I suppose I have a right to walk about on my own estate?” said he.
“I know nothing about your own estate,” replied the farmer’s son. “I say nothin’ about that. They do be talking about it, but I say nothin’. I has my own opinions, but I say nothin’. Others do be saying a great deal, as I suppose you hear, Mr. Jones, but I say nothin’.”
“How dare you be so impudent to your landlord?”
“I know nothin’ about landlords. I know father has a lease of this land, and pays his rent, whether you get it or another; and you have no more right, it’s my belief, to intrude here nor any other stranger. So, if you please, you’ll walk.”
“I shall stay here just as long as it suits me,” said Cousin Henry.
“Oh, very well. Then father will have his action against you for trespass, and so you’ll be brought into a court of law. You are bound to go off when you are warned. You ain’t no right here because you call yourself landlord. You come up here and I’ll thrash you, that’s what I will. You wouldn’t dare show yourself before a magistrate, that’s what you wouldn’t.”
The young man stood there for a while waiting, and then walked off with a loud laugh.
Anyone might insult him, anyone might beat him, and he could seek for no redress because he would not dare to submit himself to the ordeal of a witness-box. All those around him knew that it was so. He was beyond the protection of the law because of the misery of his position. It was clear that he must do something, and as he could not drown himself, there was nothing better than that telling of his tale to Mr. Griffith. He would go to Mr. Griffith at once. He had not the book and the document with him, but perhaps he could tell the tale better without their immediate presence.
At Coed he found the farmer in his own farmyard.
“I have come to you in great trouble,” said Cousin Henry, beginning his story.
“Well, squire, what is it?” Then the farmer seated himself on a low, movable bar which protected the entrance into an open barn, and Cousin Henry sat beside him.
“That young man Cantor insulted me grossly just now.”
“He shouldn’t have done that. Whatever comes of it all, he shouldn’t have done that. He was always a forward young puppy.”
“I do think I have been treated very badly among you.”
“As to that, Mr. Jones, opinion does run very high about the squire’s will. I explained to you all that when I was with you yesterday.”
“Something has occurred since that—something that I was coming on purpose to tell you.”
“What has occurred?” Cousin Henry groaned terribly as the moment for revelation came upon him. And he felt that he had made the moment altogether unfit for revelation by that ill-judged observation as to young Cantor. He should have rushed at his story at once. “Oh, Mr. Griffith, I have found the will!” It should have been told after that fashion. He felt it now—felt that he had allowed the opportunity to slip by him.
“What is it that has occurred, Mr. Jones, since I was up at Llanfeare yesterday?”
“I don’t think that I could tell you here.”
“Where, then?”
“Not yet today. That young man, Cantor, has so put me out that I hardly know what I am saying.”
“Couldn’t you speak it out, sir, if it’s just something to be said?”
“It’s something to be shown too,” replied Cousin Henry, “and if you wouldn’t mind coming up to the house tomorrow, or next day, then I could explain it all.”
“Tomorrow it shall be,” said the farmer. “On the day after I shall be in Carmarthen to market. If eleven o’clock tomorrow morning won’t be too early, I shall be there, sir.”
One, or three, or five o’clock would have been better, or the day following better still, so that the evil hour might have been postponed. But Cousin Henry assented to the proposition and took his departure. Now he had committed himself to some revelation, and the revelation must be made. He felt acutely the folly of his own conduct during the last quarter of an hour. If it might have been possible to make the old man believe that the document had only been that morning found, such belief could only have been achieved by an impulsive telling of the story. He was aware that at every step he took he created fresh difficulties by his own folly and want of foresight. How could he now act the sudden emotion of a man startled by surprise? Nevertheless, he must go on with his scheme. There was now nothing before him; but still he might be
