This was poured forth as fast as the words would come out of Molly's mouth, but before they had all streamed forth, Judith was choking in a hysterical fit, so like a convulsion that Johnnie could only cry, "Aunt! aunt! Mother, look!" And Molly herself was frightened, and began to say, "There! there!" while she helped him to hold her sister, and little Judy flew off, half in terror and half in search of help, crying out that aunt was in a fit.

Help of a certain sort came—a good deal more of it than was wanted—and the room was crowded up, and there were a good many "Poor dears!" "There, nows!" and proposals of burnt feathers and vinegar; but Mrs Spurrell, who was reckoned the most skilled in illness, came at last, put the others out, especially as they wanted to see about their husbands' teas, and brought a sort of quiet, in which Judith lay exhausted, but shuddering now and then, and Molly sobbed by the fire. John gathered from the exclamations that the Carbonel family were safe somewhere, that Miss Sophy had gone on like the woman preacher at Downhill, that Greenhow had been on fire, but nobody was hurt, though the soldiers had ridden in upon them, "so as was a shame to see," and had got poor Dan and Ned Fell, and all sure locked up.

John was shocked at this, for he had not meant to do more than send Captain Carbonel home to protect his family, and had not realised all the consequences. In a few minutes more, however, his father himself tramped in, and the first thing he did was to fall on the lad in a fury, grasping him by the collar, with horrible abuse of him for an unnatural informer, turning against his own father, and dealing a storm of heavy blows on him with a great stick. Down clattered Mrs Spurrell, asking if he wished to kill his sister-in-law?

"A good thing too—a traitor in one's house," he burst out, with more raging words and fresh blows on poor John, who never cried out through all; but his mother rushed down the next moment, crying out that she would not have her son mauled and beaten, and laying fast hold of the stick.

It was turning into a fight between husband and wife, and Mrs Spurrell, who had more of her senses about her than any one else, called out, "Off with you, John Hewlett! I'll tackle 'em!"

Poor Johnnie had no choice but to obey her. Bruised, worn out, hungry, uncertain of everything, and miserable about his aunt, he could only wander slowly away, feeling himself a traitor. He found his way to the workshop, and had just thrown himself down in the wood-shed, when he heard his master's voice calling out—

"Who's there?"

"Me! Johnny! Father's in a mortal rage with me for telling the captain, but I never thought as how all the soldiers would come."

"And a very good thing they did, to put a stop to such doings as never was," said Mrs Hewlett's voice. "Bless me, the dear children and the ladies might have been burnt in their beds!"

"Come in, Johnnie, and have a bit of supper," said George Hewlett.

"And tell us all about it," said his wife. "We'll give you a shake-down for the night if you can't go home."

John was thankful, and Mrs Hewlett set before him a good meal of bread, cheese, cold bacon, and beer; but he was too dull and dejected, as well as much too tired, to be able to talk, and scarcely could remember all that had happened. He knew it was not manners to put his head down on his arms on the table, but he really could not hold it up, and he had dozed off almost with the food in his mouth.

"Poor chap! He's fair worn out," said the elder George. "Make his bed ready, mother."

And when it was ready, the younger George absolutely kicked him into being awake enough to tumble into it. Even then his sleep was for a good while tossing, dreamy, and restless; but, by-and-by, it grew sounder, and he lay so still in the morning that his kind hostess hindered her boys from disturbing him. He had not long been awake, and had only said his prayers, and washed at the pump, when horses' feet were heard, and Cousin George called to him to come out and speak to the captain. He came, with hair wringing wet, and shy, awkward looks.

"My lad," said the captain, "I cannot tell you how much I thank you for your bravery and spirit the night before last. You did me and mine a benefit that I shall always remember, though I feel it would just be insulting you to offer you any present reward! Nor, indeed, could it be sufficient for what you have done."

"Thank you, sir," mumbled John, hardly knowing what he or the captain said.

"And," added Captain Carbonel, "your father got away. If he is taken, what you have done for us may be remembered in his favour."

Again John managed to say, "Thank you, sir." And the captain rode off to offer the like thanks to Tirzah Todd; but her cottage was shut up, the donkey gone, and she, with her husband and Hoglah out on a broom-selling expedition. He was not clear of the riot, and she did not want him to hear her thanked. They must have gone away with their gipsy kin, for they never came back while the Carbonels were in England, and only a sovereign could be left for them with Mr Harford, who promised to stand Tirzah's friend if any opening for assisting her offered.

Dan had been told that rioters generally got off without difficulty. It was not easy to trace them, and their safety was in numbers and their semi-disguise; and Jack Swing, or the man with the nose, had escaped on various similar occasions, wearing a different disguise at each place. It had not come into their calculations that they had gone so far as to rouse the spirit of the landowners, who had at first dealt gently with the disturbances, but who now felt that strong measures must be taken to prevent the mischief from going further. He thought himself safe when he had once got away from the strong-room at Greenhow, and he was slouching about his garden when Cox the constable, backed by two stout men, came with a warrant, from Sir Harry Hartman, for the apprehension of Daniel Hewlett for peace-breaking and arson. He began to argue that it was not he more than any one else, and he hadn't set fire to nothing, but he was told that he must reserve his defence for his trial, and the handcuffs were put on, and he was carried off in a cart, just as John was hurrying up the lane, having got leave from his master to see how his aunt was, before beginning work.

Molly had seen her husband taken to prison before, and she did not realise that this was a much more serious affair than were his poaching misdemeanours, so that she was not so much overpowered as might have been expected; and, as he was taken by the well-known constable instead of the soldiers, she did not treat it as John's fault. Besides, she was really afraid of, as she said, "upsetting" Judith by another outcry, so she only moaned in a low, miserable voice about what was to become of her and her poor children, though after all, what with the parish, Judith's help, and John's earnings, she would be no worse off than was common with her. Jem was supposed to "keep himself," and only Judy was really on her hands.

She would hardly let her son go up and see Judith. "Now, you'll be terrifying of her, and she'll be upset again and holler, and go into a fit."

However, he took off his boots and went up softly. Judith was all alone, lying still, but he had never seen her look half so ill, though she opened her eyes and smiled when the creaking stair announced him, and when he bent over her she said, "Dear lad, you bain't hurt!"

"Oh no; not at all."

"And the dear ladies are safe?"

"Yes; Tirzah Todd came and took them away."

"Thank God!"

"But you are bad, auntie?"

"Oh, never mind. All's right! You've done your duty, and I can only thank God for my good lad."

Her voice grew faint, her eyes closed, and John was obliged to go away— but the look of peace stayed with him.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

JUDITH.

"And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore." Keble.

Little Mary Carbonel was not the worse for all the agitations, from which, indeed, she had been so carefully shielded, but her mother was sadly broken down by all she had undergone, and likewise by mortification at the whole conduct of the Uphill people. After all the years that she and her husband and sisters had striven for them, it was very hard to find that so very few would exert themselves for their protection, and that so many would even turn against them. It was hard to make allowance for the bewilderment of slow minds, for sheer cowardice, and for the instinct of going along with one's own class of people. She and Sophy prayed that they might forgive the people, but it was impossible just then not to feel that there was a good deal to forgive, and Captain Caiger was always telling them that all their trouble came in trying to help the good-for-nothing people.

They had moved into the George Hotel at Elchester. It was a good large inn, such as used to exist in coaching days, where travellers stopped for meals, and sometimes spent a night, and the rooms were so comfortable that they were glad to stay there, while Captain Carbonel could go backwards and forwards to make arrangements about the repair of Greenhow. Of course, when he came to look the place over with a builder from Elchester it turned out that a great deal more was needed than simply re-building what had been burnt; and he was in difficulties about the cost, when an offer came which he was glad to accept.

The Seven Ionian Islands had been put under the protection of England since they had been set free from the Turkish dominion, and the Governor, Sir Thomas Maitland, (King Tom as he was often called), was very active in building, making roads, and improving them in every way possible. He wanted an English officer to superintend his doings in the little isle of Santa Maura, and being acquainted with Major Sandford, Dora's husband, the proposal was made that Captain Carbonel should undertake the work for two or three years, bringing out, of course, his family with a handsome salary. It was a most opportune offer, giving him the means of renewing Greenhow, of a visit to the sister, and of restoring his wife's health, which had been much tried by her child's death, little Mary's delicate state, and the alarm of the riots. So it was gladly accepted, and the departure was to take place as soon as the trials were over, for a special commission had been appointed to try the rioters; and poor Sophy was much distressed at having so evidently recognised Dan Hewlett when she found that "rioting and arson," that is, burning, made a capital offence, so that it was a matter of life and death.

But there was another to whom this same discovery made a great difference—namely, Dan Hewlett himself. When he found that his life was at stake, he declared himself willing to turn King's evidence, if his pardon were secured to him, and this was really important, as he was able to identify Jack Swing, who really was the chief mischief-maker, being a young clerk whose head had been turned by foolish notions about liberty for the people, and who really acted more generously, and with less personal spite, than most of his unhappy followers. However, Dan was content to purchase his own life by denouncing the leader whom he had followed, and he was promised safety after the trial should be over, until which time he must remain in prison at Minsterham.

Captain Carbonel had consulted George Hewlett, when arranging the ruins at Greenhow, as to what had best be done for John, whose services he could not forget. George considered for a night, and the next day said—

"Well, sir, I beg your pardon, but the best thing as could be done with that there John would be to put him somewhere to learn the cabinet-making. He is a right sharp, clever hand, and knows pretty well all I can teach him; and he would get on famous if he had the chance. And it bain't so comfortable for him here. Some of 'em owes him a grudge for bringing the soldiers down on 'em, and calls him an informer; and it will be all the worserer for him when his father comes home—the scamp that he is! I'm ready to wish my name wasn't the same. Wuss shame by far than to be strung up to turn agin him as he was hand and glove with!"

"I am quite of your opinion, Hewlett; and I fully think John would be best out of the way, poor fellow. I will inquire for a good master for him."

"Thank you, sir. I would have had the boy up to sleep at my place, but he won't leave his poor aunt. He be the chief comfort she has, poor thing. But she won't be here long anyway; and if ever there was a good woman, 'tis Judith Grey."

It was quite true. Mr Harford, who had come home on Saturday, walked over to Poppleby, partly for the sake of saying that Judith was certainly near the close of her trials, and that it was her great wish to see one of the dear ladies again, though she durst not ask one of them to come into Dan's house. Indeed Mr Harford had only drawn the expression of her desire out of her with difficulty.

Mrs Carbonel was not well enough for a trying interview, so it was Sophy who drove from Elchester with her brother-in-law, grave and thoughtful, and only wishing to avoid everybody; for she could not yet forget how no one had shown any gratitude, nor desire to shield those who had been so long their friends. The Poppleby doctor had been sent to see Judith, and had pronounced that the old disease had made fatal progress, accelerated by the hysterical convulsions caused by the night and day of suspense and anxiety, and the attack on her nephew, as well as the whole of Dan's conduct. He did not think that she could last many more days.

So Sophy arrived at the well-known cottage, and was met at the door by Molly, with her apron to her eyes, and a great deal to say about her poor sister, and "it wasn't her wish"; but Mr Harford, who was on the watch, began to answer her, so as to keep her from going upstairs with the visitors. Little Judy, now a nice, neat girl of fourteen, was sitting by her, but rose to go away when the lady came in.

Judith was leaning against pillows, and the pink flush in her cheeks and her smile of greeting prevented Sophy from seeing how ill and wasted she looked, thin and weak as were the fingers that lay on the coverlet.

"Why, Judith, you look much better than I expected. You will soon be as well as ever."

Judith only smiled, and said, "Thank you, ma'am! I hope Mrs Carbonel is better."

"Yes. She is getting better now, and she is very sorry not to come and see you; but perhaps she may be able before we go away."

"And little Miss Mary, ma'am?"

"She has been quite another creature since we have been at Poppleby—not at all fretty, and almost rosy."

"I am glad. And you are going away, ma'am?"

"Yes; off to a beautiful island in the Mediterranean Sea, close to all the places where Saint Paul preached. You know Dora is at Malta, where he was shipwrecked."

"Yes, ma'am; I like to know it. You will give my duty to her, Miss Sophy, and thank her—oh! so much,"—and Judith clasped her hands—"for all she and you and Mrs Carbonel have been to me. You seemed to bring the light back to me, just as my faith was growing slack and dull."

"Yes; I will tell her, Judith. I don't like leaving you, but it won't seem long till we come back; and we will send you those beautiful Maltese oranges."

Judith smiled that beautiful smile again. "Ah, Miss Sophy, you have been very good, and helped me ever so much; but my time is nearly over, and I shall not want even you and madam where I am going. I shall see His face," she murmured; and lifted up her hands.

Sophy was rather frightened, and felt as if she had done wrong in talking of oranges. She did not know what to say, and only got out something about Johnnie and a comfort.

"Yes, that he is, Miss Sophy, and little Judy too. The boy, he is that shy and quiet, no one would believe the blessed things he says and reads to me at night. He be a blessing, and so be Judy, all owing to the Sunday School."

"Oh! to you, Judith. You made him good before we had him, though Mary and Dora did help," said Sophy, with rising tears.

"And oh! I am so thankful," she said, clasping her hands, "for what the captain is doing for the boy."

"He deserves it, I am sure," said Sophy.

"It will keep him easier to the right way, and it would be harder for him when I am gone, and his father come home! And Mr Harford, he says he will find a good place for Judy. She is a good girl, a right good girl."

"That she is."

"And, maybe, Mrs Carbonel and you, when you come home, would be good to my poor sister. She've been a good sister to me, she has, with it all, but it has all been against her, and she would be a different woman if she could. Please remember her."

"We will, we will if we can."

Then Judith went on to beg Sophy to write to her former mistress, Mrs Barnard, with all her thanks for past kindness. That seemed to exhaust her a good deal, and she lay back, just saying faintly, "If you would read me a little bit, miss."

The Prayer-Book lay nearest, and Sophy read, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace," as well as she could amid the choking tears. She felt as if she were lifted into some higher air, but Judith lay so white and still that she durst not do more than say, "Good-bye, dear Judith." She was going to say, "I will come and see you again," but something withheld her. She thought Judith's lips said, "Up there." She bent down, kissed the cheek, now quite white, and crept down, passing Molly at the turn.

Two days later Mr Harford came to say that Judith was gone. Her last communion with Johnnie, and with George Hewlett, had been given to her the day before, and she had not spoken afterwards, only her face had been strangely bright.

The Carbonels could only feel that her remnant of life had been shortened by all she had undergone for their sakes, and Edmund and Sophy both stood as mourners at her grave, Sophy feeling that her life had been more of a deepening, realising lesson than anything that had gone before, making her feel more than had ever come yet into her experience, what this life is compared with eternal life.



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.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

MISSED AND MOURNED.

"Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain." Longfellow.

"Be they Gobblealls not coming home?" asked Nanny Barton, as she stood at her gate, while some of her neighbours came slowly out of church, about two years later.

"My man, he did ask Shepherd Tomkins," said Betsy Seddon, "and all the answer he got was, 'You don't desarve it, not you.' As if my man had gone out with that there rabble rout!"

"And I'm sure mine only went up to see what they were after, and helped to put out the fire beside."

"Ay," said Cox, behind her, "but not till the soldiers were come."

"Time they did come!" said Seddon. "Rain comes through the roof, and that there Lawyer Brent won't have nothing done to it till the captain comes home."

"Yes," added Morris, "and when I spoke to him about my windows, as got blown in, he said 'cottages were no end of expense, and we hadn't treated them so as they would wish to come back nohow.'"

"Think of their bearing malice!" cried Nanny Barton.

"I don't believe as how they does," responded the other Nanny. "They have sent the coals and the blankets all the same."

"Bear malice!" said Mrs Truman, who had just walked up. "No, no. Why, Parson Harford have said over and over again, when he gave a shilling or so or a meat order, to help a poor lady that was ill, that 'twas by madam's wish."

"And Governess Thorpe, she has the bag of baby-linen and half a pound of tea for any call," said Mrs Spurrell.

"But one looks for the friendly word and the time of day," sighed Betsy Seddon.

"The poor children, they don't half like their school without the ladies to look in," said Mrs Truman. "It is quite a job to get them there without Miss Sophy to tell them stories."

"I can't get mine to go at all on Sundays," said Nanny Morris.

"And," added Betsy Seddon, "I'm right sure my poor Bob would never have 'listed for a soldier if the captain had been at home to make Master Pucklechurch see the rights of things, and not turn him off all on a suddent."

"Master Pucklechurch, he don't believe they are never coming back," said Widow Mole, who had just come that way as an evening walk with her children. "He says little miss, and madam too, have their health so much better out there, that they won't like to come home. And yet they have made the place like a picture. I was up there to help Sue Pucklechurch clean it up, and 'tis just a pleasure to see all the new outhouses and sheds, as you might live in yourself, and well off too."

"And that it should all be for them Pucklechurches," sighed Seddon.

"I heerd tell," said Mrs Truman, "that Lawyer Brent was to come and live in the house, and that was why they are making it so nice."

On this there arose a general wail of lamentation, and even of indignation. Nobody loved Lawyer Brent, who was a hard, if a just, man, anxious for his employer's good, but inclined, in spite of all cautions, to grind the tenants. To hear of his coming to Greenhow was dismal news to all concerned, and there was such a buzz of doleful inquiries that Mr Harford stopped on his way home to ask what was the matter.

"Oh no," he said, when he heard. "Captain and Mrs Carbonel are coming home in the spring, only they wished to travel slowly, so as to see something of foreign parts. You need not be afraid. We shall have them back again, and I hope nobody will be as foolish as before. I am sure they have quite forgiven."

And, on a fine spring day, the bells were ringing at the church, and everybody stood out at the cottage doors, curtseying and bowing with delight and welcome; and Mrs Carbonel and Miss Sophia and Miss Mary, looking rosy, healthy, and substantial, and even little Master Edmund was laughing and nodding, and looking full of joy. While the captain walked up with Mr Harford, and greeted every one with kindly, hearty words. No one could doubt that they were glad to be at home again, and after all that had come and gone, that they felt that these were their own people whom they loved.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

CONCLUSION.

"The work be Thine, the fruit Thy children's part."—Keble.

Look at Uphill Priors in the year 1880. Here are the mothers coming out of the mothers' meeting. They look, in their neat hats and jackets, better on this week-day than any one would have done on Sunday sixty years ago. They are, many of them, the granddaughters, or grandsons' wives, of the inhabitants in those old times; but they have not the worn, haggard faces that their parents had when far younger, except one or two poor things who have drunken husbands. Miss Carbonel (young Miss Carbonel) and the vicar's wife have been working with them, and reading to them things that the Bettys and Nannys of those days would not have understood or cared for.

The white-haired lady, who stops her donkey-chaise to exchange some affectionate, kindly words, and give out a parcel or two—she is Miss Sophia; and those elderly women who cluster round for a greeting, they are her old scholars. Those black eyes are Hoglah's; that neat woman is Judy! Yes, she has lived among them, and worked among them all her life, never forgetting that "no good work can be done without drudgery." She has her Girls' Friendly Society class still in her own little house, though she has dropped most of her regular out-of-door work of late years. For the vicar—there is a vicar now—and his daughters teach constantly in the schools. The children are swarming out now, orderly and nice, even superior in appearance to some of the mothers they run up to; and as to learning, the whole parish can read and write, and the younger ones can send out a letter that would be no disgrace to a lady or a gentleman.

There is a machine, with its long tail of spikes, coughing along as it blows off the steam at Farmer Goodenough's. No one dreams of meddling with it to do any harm. Wages are better, food is cheaper, and there are comforts in the house of every one tolerably thrifty that the grandmothers look at as novelties. John and George Hewlett, carpenters and builders, have a handsome shop and large workshop in the street.

All this has come in the way of gradual change, brought about not by rioting, but by the force of opinion, and the action of those in authority.

But how have people been fitted to make a good use of these things—not to waste them, but to use them as God's good gifts? There has been a quiet influence at work ever since "they Gobblealls" came up the roughness of the lanes, and "Mary's approach" was given up.

Captain Edmund, and Mary his wife, lie in their quiet graves, but the work they did—by justice, by kindness, by teaching, by example—has gone on growing, and Miss Sophia looks at it, and is thankful, as she still gives her best in love and experience to the young generation who are with her and look up to her for help and counsel.

The church is beautiful now, not only to look at, nor merely in the well-performed music of the services, but in the number and devotion of the worshippers and communicants. Of course, all is not perfect in the place—never, never will it be so in this world; but the boys and youths can, and often are, saved from a fit of thoughtless heathenism by their clubs and their guilds, and the better families are mostly communicants. Blots there are, and the vicar sometimes desponds when some fresh evil crops up; but Miss Sophia always tells him to hope, and that—

"The many prayers, the holy tears, the nurture in the Word, Have not in vain ascended up before the Gracious Lord."

FINIS.