The Carbonels

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THE GOLDEN CHAINS.

"A form unseen is pulling us behind,

Threads turn to cords, and cords to cables strong,

Till habit hath become as Destiny,

Which drives us on, and shakes her scourge on high."

Isaac Williams.

Captain Carbonel lost no time after Judith Grey's funeral in sending John Hewlett to his new master, Mr Jones. The place was the Carbonels' old home, in a county far-away from Uphill. George had wished the lad to go to a cabinet-maker whom he knew at Minsterham, but he was convinced by the captain's advice to let him be quite away from the assizes, which would not only be pain and shame to him, but would mark his name with the brand of the same kind as that of an informer. This Mr Jones was well-known to the Carbonel family as an excellent man-a churchwarden, and sure to care for the welfare, spiritual as well as bodily, of those commended to him.

And it happened, not unfortunately for John, that, in the captain's handwriting, his rather uncommon name was read as Newlett, and for some time after he arrived he never found out the mistake, and was rather glad of it when he did so, since no one connected him with the rick-burner who gave evidence against his leader.

Dan himself came home to find that he was held in more utter disgrace than for all his former disreputable conduct, which only passed for good-fellowship. If he had been hanged, or even transported, he would only have been "poor Dan Hewlett," and his wife would have had all the pity due to widowhood; but everybody fought shy of him, and the big lads hooted at him. He could not get work, Judith's pension had failed, and they lived scantily on what Farmer Goodenough allowed Molly to earn, as an old hand, to be kept off the parish. Little Judith was apprenticed to Mrs Pearson, according to the old fashion which bound out pauper girls as apprentices to service, and which had one happy effect, namely, that they could not drift foolishly from one situation to another, though, in bad hands, they sometimes had much to suffer. But Mrs Pearson was a kind, conscientious mistress, and Judy was a good girl, so that all went well.

Dan slouched about, snared rabbits and hares, and drank up the proceeds thereof at little public-houses where he was not known, or where the company was past caring about his doings. At last, he was knocked down in the dark by the mail-coach, and brought home in a cart, slowly dying.

Mr Harford came to see him, and found his recollections of old times reviving, when he had been Dame Verdon's best scholar. "I could beat old George any day at his book. And, then, I was church singer, and had the solos," he said, evidently thinking sadly of his better days. "And my wife, she was that tidy-only she did put too much on her back!"

The screen, which Judith had of late years kept with the panel with the laburnums on the back side, had by accident been now turned so that he saw them; and, when Mr Harford came the next day, he broke out-

"Them flowers! Them flowers, sir!"

Mr Harford could not understand.

"Them golden chains, sir. They was at the bottom of it."

Mr Harford understood still less.

"They talk of devils' chains, sir, and how they drags a man down. Them was a link, sure enough. That paper there, sir, I keeps seeing it at night by the rushlight, and they gets to look just like chains."

Then Mr Harford understood that he meant the laburnums on the paper- golden chains, as they are often called.

"I was working with George," he said, "before them Carbonels came, and when there was a piece of the parlour paper left over, I took it for a parkisit. I didn't let George know; he always seemed too particular. 'Twas more than I had reckoned on; and one bit I papered Mrs Brown's room, at Downhill, with; and one bit that was left my wife put on the screen. Then, when the captain made a work about it, I thought it was mean and shabby in him, and I never could lay my mind to him or his after that-special after Miss Sophy came and spied it out. I went agen 'em more and more, and all they wanted for the place; and it riled me the more that my lad should be took up with them and his aunt. And so the ill-will of it went on with me, worse and worserer. Molly, I say, take the devils' chains away. They've got a hold of me."

That was his delirious cry. Mr Harford prayed with him and for him, but never could tell how much was remorse and how much might be repentance. He was quieter as his strength failed, and his wife said he made a beautiful end, and that she was sure the Holy Name of the Saviour was on his lips, and Mr Harford trusted that she was right, with the charity that hopeth all things.