"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.