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 TOM COBBLEIGH 
 
 GENTLEMAN 
 
 UPCOTT'S 
 DAUGHTER 
 
 LONDON 
 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 M OCCC XC1I
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 LADY-DAY. 
 
 PROCESSION of wag- 
 gons was drawn up in 
 the open space before 
 " The Sparkford Inn." 
 The old sign-board shone 
 in the sun and shook in 
 the March wind. Around the porch 
 beneath clustered a waggoner and 
 his boys. The host having brought 
 out a quart cup, stood by for a 
 gossip. The waggoner drank deeply 
 and seriously. Reflected. Drank 
 again : then smiled wisely. 
 
 " Come vrom out round Cadbury, 
 zumwhere, I'll goo bail." 
 " Zo did." 
 
 3 
 
 2015182
 
 GENTLKMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 " Up top o' parish, or I be a 
 vool." 
 
 " Did zo." 
 
 " Not a hunderd mile vrom zum- 
 where I do know." 
 
 " An' that's true." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Words cannot describe the ap- 
 preciation, both of self and cider, 
 conveyed by that monosyllable 
 breathed by a Somersetshire man 
 as softly as a sigh. Then the cup 
 was handed round. 
 
 "They do sweat, zim-zo," said 
 the innkeeper, pointing to the cloud 
 of steam rising from the foremost 
 team. 
 
 "They've a come on," was the 
 terse explanation. 
 
 " You'll find a change down 
 where you're going." 
 
 " That's very true," replied the 
 waggoner, fully recognising that 
 truth is never absolute but relative. 
 " That's zo true a word as ever you 
 spoke." 
 
 " No. Ma'ston 's not Lovi'ton." 
 
 " Not that." 
 
 The innkeeper, short and stout, 
 wearing a sleeve waistcoat for 
 warmth, but leaving the lower
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 buttons open for coolness, placed 
 his hands upon his hips, loitered up 
 to the foremost waggon, and read 
 aloud the name, painted in brown 
 letters on a yellow ground : 
 
 "EBENEZER UPCOTT, Loving- 
 ton. 1821." 
 
 Well known were both waggon and 
 owner, but being a scholar he read 
 omnivorously from real love of 
 letters. 
 
 " Nor Lovi'ton wasn't North Cad- 
 bury. Eh ? " 
 
 " An' that's no lie," assented the 
 waggoner. 
 
 a 'Tis a goodish stack o r things, 
 though," said the innkeeper, glanc- 
 ing up at the load. 
 
 " Zo 'tis." 
 
 Needless to say, the waggons con- 
 tained no agricultural crop. They 
 were piled up with household furni- 
 ture. Benches and stools, an old 
 oak settle, bedsteads, bedding, and 
 mysterious pieces encased in straw, 
 reached high into the air. Legs of 
 inverted tables, small and large, 
 stuck out of the crazy pile in all 
 directions, like almonds from a 
 tipsy-cake. At the back stood an
 
 GENTLEMAN UrCOTT S 
 
 immense cask, around which passed 
 ropes to steady the tottering super- 
 structure. 
 
 "You zee," said the waggoner, 
 winking crafty wisdom, " we put 
 the girt zider-butt vor a steadyment. 
 Do stand like Sturton tower, don't 
 er ? " Then conscientiously pouring 
 the last drops from his cup upon 
 the ground, he said "Good-day" to 
 the host, " Mither way " to the 
 horses, and proceeded on his road. 
 
 A couple of labourers had come 
 from the inn, and stood watching 
 the waggons out of sight. 
 
 "You zee, they put the girt zider- 
 butt vor a steadyment." 
 
 "A wondervul good plan. I 
 wonder who thought o' that, 
 now ? " 
 
 " He still got Cadbury on the 
 little wold waggon," said another. 
 
 " I do suppwose they never had it 
 altered." 
 
 So with tinkling of bells the teams 
 went slowly on their way between 
 high hedgerows, and beneath the 
 branches of overhanging elms. 
 Primroses were growing on the 
 banks, buds were pushing on the 
 branches. As they descended the
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 knap above Queen Camel the air 
 was sweet with violets, for the 
 noonday sun shone on the side of 
 the sheltered hollow. A sparrow, 
 bent on matrimony and furnishing, 
 was carrying away a straw robbed 
 by a bough from some passing load. 
 
 " He's a-builden, I suppose," sug- 
 gested a boy who rode beside the 
 waggoner. 
 
 " You didden think he wur ridden 
 house, did ee, young nog-head ? " 
 
 Thus severely the carter, a man 
 of position and experience, checked 
 the frivolous conversation of youth, 
 and they proceeded in silence. 
 
 Ridding house ! What is this 
 ridding house ? 
 
 This pageant of wains is it a 
 triumphal progress, or a slow retreat 
 before advancing failure ? The in- 
 scription on each waggon was a 
 chapter in the life of Ebenezer 
 Upcott, and as they lazily lumbered 
 over the bridge across the brook, 
 John Biddlecombe, white with meal, 
 but inquisitive at the sound of 
 wheels, thrust his head from the 
 mill-door, and remembered that 
 Ebenezer owed him money. He 
 doubted if the debt were safe, and
 
 10 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 with worldly wisdom natural to a 
 miller was considering the propriety 
 of dealing with Ebenezer in order 
 to deduct the amount. 
 
 They stopped a minute at " The 
 Cock," at Camel, where the carter 
 had a pint whilst the others watched 
 him. For this was not a question 
 of thirst but luxury, and to let boys 
 drink is a bad example. They 
 established that in stability " the 
 girt zider-butt " was equal to Camel 
 Hill ; and then people rushed to their 
 doors on either side of Camel Street 
 to watch " Eb. Upcott's rottletraps " 
 as they creaked and rattled on their 
 way. 
 
 There was much conversation 
 about Ebenezer that day. He had 
 a family of daughters, and some 
 said it was a pity, others that it 
 was his own fault ; not because 
 they were many, for both sons and 
 daughters were the gifts of God, 
 and in those days were accepted 
 without the cavil and criticism of 
 modern times. Yet however humbly 
 we may bow to the wisdom of 
 Providence in the distribution of 
 the sexes, it cannot be denied that, 
 eight laughing, healthy, merry
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 maidens make a good handful for 
 any man. They may be sweet and 
 beautiful like a bouquet, but lack 
 the utility of a crop. 
 
 And times were bad, as they 
 always have been, but even worse 
 then than now ; for Bonaparte, 
 after trampling and tyrannising over 
 Europe, plotting it out like a 
 flower-garden, was beaten, dead, 
 and buried ; and Waterloo, glorious 
 as it was, and a source of pride to 
 every true-born Briton, had worked 
 disastrous results on prices. They 
 came down with a run, dragging 
 many an old-fashioned farmer from 
 the homestead of his fathers. 
 
 But Mr. Ebenezer Upcott was 
 not old-fashioned. Some people in 
 those parts considered him new- 
 fangled, whilst others said he was 
 stuck-up. A vague rumour often 
 expressed over the wood-fire and 
 cider-cup allied him to the Upcotts 
 of Exeter, and in those days men 
 still cherished respect for high 
 degree. 
 
 The relationship lost nothing by 
 being so distant. Having established 
 that Mr. Upcott was of good family, 
 being connected with the Upcott^
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'&- 
 
 of Exeter, it became easy to argue 
 that the Upcotts of Exeter were 
 well descended, being related to 
 Ebenezer. On these considerations 
 many traits in Ebenezer, although 
 resented, were considered quite 
 natural and explained away. 
 
 It was recognised also that Ebe- 
 nezer was a man of wonderful dis- 
 course. He got at the rights of 
 things, there was no mistake about 
 that. Law, which presents diffi- 
 culties to many minds, was to him 
 a recreation, and divinity gave no 
 trouble whatever. He possessed 
 wonderful judgment, too, in respect 
 of everything but his own business 
 a judgment which could point 
 out when another man had done 
 foolishly. If it did not help him 
 much in the direction of his own 
 affairs well, what can you expect 
 with eight daughters who cannot 
 be put out ? 
 
 The arts of millinery, drapery, 
 and dressmaking, which provided a 
 genteel livelihood for the girls even 
 of the larger yeomen, were rightly 
 repugnant to the " maidens of 
 Gentleman Upcott," as they were 
 sometimes described, Therefore
 
 DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 from a sense of duty one went to 
 live with her granny, another with 
 a maiden aunt, whilst Sempronia, 
 the eldest, resided with a distant 
 relation, and kept the keys of every- 
 thing, which makes a great differ- 
 ence. By such arrangements they 
 were distributed as blessings, and 
 the family pride remained intact 
 and uncompromised. 
 
 All but Ruth, who stayed at 
 home. So pretty, so merry, and 
 withal so mischievous that people 
 wondered why she stayed so long. 
 But Lovington was not Cadbury, 
 and although the land at Marston 
 Magna does not scour, the holding 
 was small, and neither Ebenezer's 
 discourse nor mine can make it 
 larger. 
 
 She was twenty, and tall as any 
 girl should be ; straight as the 
 poplars skirting the churchyard ; 
 dark as the yew whose shadow fell 
 upon the porch ; and graceful as 
 the willow bending over the village 
 brook. 
 
 She was standing on the raised 
 causeway at the corner waiting for 
 the waggons. March winds are 
 drying, the roads ran well, and it
 
 14 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 was a wonder that they did not 
 come. Perhaps something had 
 happened. In Ruth's experience 
 something always did happen. 
 
 At last in the distance she espied 
 the parlour table above the hedge- 
 rows, and presently the horses came 
 nodding round a bend in the road, 
 with John Sprackman walking at 
 the leader's head. He saw her, 
 and cracked his whip in enthusiasm 
 for work. The horses almost broke 
 into a trot, the bells jingled more 
 merrily. a Let Ma'ston volk zee 
 how we do come into parish," 
 thought John, and felt sure that 
 Miss Ruth must be proud also. 
 
 " Take care, John ; take care." 
 
 He laughed, knowing well that 
 in all Somersetshire there was not 
 a better carter than John Sprack- 
 man. 
 
 But as they turned the corner in 
 such capital style the rope encircl- 
 ing the " girt zider-butt " broke off 
 " so short as a carrot." Nobody 
 could have foreseen it ; and it is 
 not to say that the wheel touched 
 the curb-stone, which it didn't, as 
 the track remained " up two voot 
 off" conclusively to prove. But
 
 DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 the rope parted in the most un- 
 accountable way ; John Sprackman 
 supposed because it was " a bit 
 woldish like." The parlour table 
 fell down with a crash ; settle, 
 benches, and chairs strewed the 
 king's highway. 
 
 "Whoa! Whoa, I tell ee. 
 Come, stupid. Don't stand there 
 wi' your thumb in your mouth. 
 Catch hold o' Smiler, can't ee ? " 
 
 Then John Sprackman surveyed 
 the universal wreck. 
 
 " It don't zim to ha' hurted the 
 little one-lagged milken stool," said 
 he, affectionately picking up that 
 primitive property. u Nor the girt 
 zider-butt, you zee, he never moved. 
 He stood so firm as Ma'ston Church, 
 I'll warrent un. But what power 
 'ud Ma'ston Church have if all the 
 volk had ha' left un ? 'T'ood'n be 
 his vault noo rnwor 'un 'twas the 
 girt zider-butt's. I knowed must 
 vail off if the rope wer' to break, 
 but o' coose noo man liven cood'n 
 zay." 
 
 Ruth looked upon this new dis- 
 aster with awe. She was aware of 
 the gradual decadence of the Up- 
 cott fortunes, the constant accidents,
 
 16 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 and the deep meaning in the dictum 
 that Lovington was not Cadbury. 
 Sometimes misfortune seemed so 
 uncalled for, and always so unex- 
 pected, that she dreaded witchcraft ; 
 and wondered whether her father's 
 ways (for that he had ways could not 
 be denied), had offended any one. 
 Besides witchcraft is mentioned in 
 the Bible, therefore one must be- 
 lieve in it to some extent, and Ruth 
 believed as little as could be expected 
 of any intelligent, dark-eyed girl of 
 those days. With a sigh she stepped 
 into the road, and sorrowfully ob- 
 served, as John Sprackman pointed 
 out, that the head of the brass 
 warming-pan had " het in the belly 
 o' the kitchen clock." 
 
 Just then a young man came 
 cantering along the Rimpton road, 
 mounted on an old mare, unkempt, 
 ungroomed, and held by a rusty 
 bit and well-worn rein. John 
 deferentially touched his hat. There 
 was no pretension about young 
 George Biddlecombe of Camel 
 His coat was patched, his hat 
 infirm in the crown, but the neigh- 
 bourhood respected him as a won- 
 derful business man, and because
 
 DAUGHTER. 1 7 
 
 his father, the miller, was warm. 
 In those days frugality and patches 
 kept a man warm. 
 
 George leapt to the ground, 
 slipped his rein under the stirrup 
 leather, and his little ground ash 
 stick in the crupper strap, and left 
 the mare to graze by the brook- 
 side. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Miss Upcott," said 
 he, shaking hands. 
 
 Then he glanced at the furniture 
 and asked what was the matter. 
 
 " You see the rope broke off like 
 a baccy-pipe. That's what 't wur, 
 right enough," explained John 
 Sprackman. 
 
 "Well, it isn't far to carry the 
 traps, that's one thing," cried the 
 sprightly young miller ; and his 
 good humour was so infectious that 
 John Sprackman recognised it was 
 better here than " in Camel Street, 
 wi' all Camel volk gapen," and 
 Ruth admitted that worse accidents 
 will happen at sea. 
 
 So they went to and fro like bees, 
 and at last carried the kitchen table 
 between them ; the miller walking 
 backwards at the head, and Ruth 
 presiding at the foot of that festive
 
 1 8 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 board. Sometimes he looked over 
 his shoulder to see where he was 
 going, but for the most part gazed 
 at Ruth, at first in a sheepish sort 
 of way, but afterwards with drollery 
 glimmering in his blue eyes. Thus 
 they crossed the little foot-bridge 
 by the ford, passed the pound and 
 village stocks, and entered the old 
 farm-house, somewhat retired from, 
 but facing the high road. 
 
 " A fine old place once," said he, 
 glancing around with admiration. 
 
 But not now, thought poor Ruth, 
 as her eye fell on the holes eaten by 
 rats in the wainscoting. 
 
 " Have you been in the parlour ? " 
 
 " No. But I've heard tell o' it," 
 replied George, with brisk interest ; 
 and they entered that interesting 
 chamber with its high oak panelling 
 and a pageant of Scripture history 
 on the walls. Beneath the lattice 
 window was a seat let into the thick 
 wall, and they sat a minute, one in 
 each corner, to rest. The window 
 was tall and narrow, the seat snug, 
 and they looked like a young couple 
 at the beginning of an old-fashioned 
 courtship or the end of a modern 
 dance.
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Then one laughed, but not 
 George. And one blushed, but not 
 Ruth. He drew a little closer, but 
 she, being in a corner, could not 
 withdraw, and he well, she said, 
 " Now, you dare now." And the 
 room being empty seemed to echo 
 back, "Dare now." And he did. 
 He kissed her without comment or 
 explanation, and she could not be 
 very angry when he had just helped 
 her to bring in the kitchen table. 
 
 At last with much whoaing and 
 ivugging John Sprackman brought 
 his waggons through the brook and 
 drew up before the garden hatch, 
 where the lilac bush was green with 
 buds. George Biddlecombe said he 
 shouldn't so much mind lending a 
 hand, and lent two with such good 
 effect that when Mr. and Mrs. Up- 
 cott drove up in their yellow gig 
 they found all the furniture deposited 
 indoors, and the " girt zider-butt " 
 standing lonely as a lighthouse on a 
 barren rock. 
 
 Yet Mr. Upcott was not pleased. 
 Pleasure departs from life when one 
 learns by experience that Lovington 
 is not Cadbury. A sombre light 
 falls on the present, exaggerating
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 even injuries befallen a kitchen 
 clock. Clouds overhang the future, 
 deepening the philosophy that 
 things might be worse into the con- 
 viction that they will. 
 
 They alighted one on either side 
 of the yellow gig. He was tall, 
 stout, and burly, wore top-boots and 
 a long coat, and swayed slightly in 
 his gait with an air of self-asser- 
 tion. His complexion was Avhat 
 country people call fresh, his hair 
 grey. 
 
 " There, you've left the rug be- 
 hind," he said to his wife, as, whip 
 in hand, he walked up the flagstone 
 pathway in the garden of his new 
 home. 
 
 " La ! then, and zo I have. And 
 the little East Indee tea-service 
 wrapped in straw in a hair-sieve 
 under the seat, an' if John had only 
 let down the shafts they mid all a 
 slid out an' bin broke." Her hus- 
 band's perception of her foolishness 
 might be earlier, but never readier 
 than her acquiescence in it. " Why, 
 and there's grandfather's wold bowl 
 that I put in the peck measure for 
 safety of course there is." 
 
 With these treasures concealed
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 under the folds of her ample red 
 cloak of West of England cloth, she 
 glanced back at the gig, half-sus- 
 pecting herself of having forgotten 
 something else. 
 
 "Come, Eliza. Come. Don't 
 stay about all day." 
 
 " Yes, Ebenezer. Coming now." 
 
 And as she hurried the cloak 
 spread out like the wings of a hen 
 protecting chicken. 
 
 " Oh ! young George Biddle- 
 combe. You here? Pleased to 
 see you, George Biddlecombe. 
 Lending a hand, I suppose. Very 
 much obliged, George Biddle- 
 combe." 
 
 Truly there was more of aggres- 
 sion than grace even in the thanks 
 of Gentleman Upcott. 
 
 " Master's very much obliged, 
 George Biddlecombe," sweetly 
 added Mrs. Upcott, acting as gra- 
 tuitous interpreter of her husband's 
 manner. She had already taken off 
 her coal-scuttle bonnet and cloak, 
 and, solicitous about the white silk 
 lining, was carefully folding the 
 hood. Her face possessed a Ma- 
 donna-like symmetry and sweetness. 
 Her hair was parted in the centre
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 of her forehead ; her lips were com- 
 pressed with constant smiles, which 
 eddied away over her cheeks, and 
 seemed to glimmer even through 
 her lament. 
 
 " Oh ! whoever did this to my 
 poor wold kitchen clock. Why, 
 zomebody must ha' zot on un when 
 he wur down along-straight. Oh ! 
 my poor old kitchen clock, that kept 
 such good time all these years, like 
 the very zun itself." 
 
 " What's this. I say, what's this ? " 
 cried Mr. Upcott. 
 
 " Why, my kitchen clock." 
 
 "Don't talk nonsense, Eliza. I 
 say, don't talk nonsense. I demand 
 who did it." 
 
 There was silence. To answer 
 seemed so much like striking a 
 match in the vicinity of gunpowder. 
 
 " Were you fool enough to dance 
 a hornpipe on that kitchen-clock, 
 George Biddlecombe ? " 
 
 " No, father," cried Ruth, indig- 
 nantly. " It fell off the load." 
 
 George twirled his hat on his 
 forefinger, and hoped the works 
 might not be hurt much. 
 
 " Not hurt much ? I say it is 
 hurt much. Do you think I'll have
 
 DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 a cracked thing standing in my 
 place for a monument to other 
 people's folly. It's spoilt. I say a 
 man's a fool who says it's not 
 spoilt." 
 
 George cleared his throat and 
 shuffled with his feet and thought 
 he had better be getting on now. 
 
 " Certainly, don't you stay. Don't 
 you stay, George Biddlecombe. I'm 
 much obliged, George Biddlecombe, 
 much obliged," said Upcott, with 
 condescension, and the young miller, 
 after shaking hands all round, went 
 about his business. 
 
 " Come, Ruth ; come, Eliza ; 
 don't stand about," said Ebenezer, 
 seating himself in the window-sill. 
 
 "Yes, Ebenezer. In a minute, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 How many follies had been com- 
 mitted that morning ! 
 
 "Well, of all the foolishness I 
 ever saw none equals this," cried 
 Mr. Upcott. 
 
 " To bring things in and put 'em 
 down all higgledy-piggledy. When 
 you've got a thing in hand put it in 
 place. Not make a heap in a hall 
 as if you were hay-making. Where 
 were your wits, Ruth ? Wool-
 
 24 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 gathering ? I thought your mother 
 had brought you up to more sense 
 than to put things down to make 
 two handlings. I wish Sempy was 
 here. She's no fool, at any rate. 
 I say, I wish Sempronia was here." 
 
 " 'Twas a pity," pleaded Mrs. 
 Upcott. "But I daresay 'twas 
 young George. These young hands 
 be too dapper for thought by half. 
 You can't expect young heads to 
 have your experience, Ebenezer." 
 
 " Then let them await my direc- 
 tions," cried he, sententiously. " I 
 don't know that I asked young 
 George Biddlecombe to come 
 making double work and " 
 
 Can a kiss in spring-time work 
 such wonders. Can it touch the 
 blood with flame and fire it into 
 mutiny ? Warm the heart with 
 gratitude and set it boiling over 
 with generous impulse ? For the 
 first time in her life Ruth openly 
 resented her father's arrogance. 
 
 "Well, he did his best. Our 
 traps might ha' mended Marston 
 road, and the cullender gone swim- 
 ming down to Chilton if we'd waited 
 till now." 
 
 To poor Mrs. Upcott there was
 
 DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 impiety in such a retort. Impiety 
 against her husband and against 
 Providence who had sent Ruth so 
 good a father. The smile which 
 shone at Lovington, survived the 
 injury to the kitchen clock, and 
 twinkled in the dark room of their 
 new home that day went out. 
 Not to succeed was misfortune. 
 For Ruth to misbehave, disgrace. 
 
 " You don't seem improved by 
 keeping his company," cried Mr. 
 Upcott. 
 
 " Keeping his company, Ebe- 
 nezer ! " echoed his wife. For it 
 had been said that George Biddle- 
 combe kept running after Ruth ; 
 and he followed her with^ his eyes 
 at evening parties. 
 
 But Ruth was already gone. " / 
 keep company with George Biddle- 
 combe?" The thought half 
 frightened her. True, he had 
 kissed her almost unrebuked. The 
 recollection perhaps gave point to 
 her father's unintentional insult, 
 and stirred a deeper indignation. 
 "/ keep company with George 
 Biddlecombe ! "
 
 II. 
 
 MILLER BIDDLECOMBE. 
 
 THIN, shaven face, small 
 quick eyes, and a mass 
 of hair white with flour, 
 age, and the cares of 
 money - getting. How 
 often it peered from the 
 open upper half of the mill door 
 that morning when the waggons 
 rumbled by ; as the gig whirled 
 past ; and at last very frequently 
 wondering at George's delay. 
 
 Miller Biddlecombe was crafty, 
 yet none could impugn his justice. 
 He was cross-grained, too, but with 
 prudence, keeping an eye on the 
 main chance, and perfect self-con- 
 trol where money was concerned. 
 Crookedness both of mind and body 
 made him critical of mankind. As
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S DAUGHTER. 2"J 
 
 the world drove by he stayed in his 
 mill like the philosopher in his tub, 
 and muttered maxims shrewdly ap- 
 plicable to each passer. 
 
 " Ha ! Ha ! Gentleman Upcott. 
 Who drives fast doesn't drive long." 
 But the leisurely yeoman jogging 
 behind his old mare pleased him no 
 better. " Ho ! Ho ! Wear out no 
 wheels. It'll wait till you come." 
 
 But where could George be biding 
 about ? Gone only to Rimpton, 
 and not back yet. The old man 
 watched his son with a jealousy 
 worthy of an elderly wife, worrying 
 him, finding faults innumerable, 
 and interfering with his most trivial 
 actions. Yet, strangely enough, 
 this crossness was the offspring of 
 affection and pride. His shrewd 
 grey eyes fell on the boy and 
 brightened. He, stunted and mis- 
 shapen, took credit for the young 
 man's straight back and active limbs. 
 They redeemed his own defect, 
 proving it only accidental. Some- 
 times in his lonely moments within 
 the mill he laughed, not with accus- 
 tomed bitterness, but from sheer 
 gaiety to think that none of them 
 possessed his son. Let all Sonier-
 
 28 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 setshire show a finer fellow than the 
 hump-backed miller's boy. Thus in 
 his heart he defied the world at 
 which he sneered. 
 
 But affection has as many forms 
 as life itself, and circumstances had 
 almost covered the miller's tender- 
 ness with prickles. He grew gold 
 like gorse a mass of it, but not 
 one petal to be picked. And at the 
 root of each piercing shaft was love, 
 could George but have got at it. 
 
 The clock in the church tower 
 struck twelve. 
 
 By aid of a stick taller and more 
 crooked than himself he walked 
 down to the road and looked and 
 listened. Not twenty lusty, lazy 
 fellows should make him break 
 through his daily custom. Back 
 he turned to the old thatched house 
 standing across the yard apart from 
 the mill. A bundle of straw and a 
 broom were by the door, and he 
 carefully rubbed and brushed his 
 boots before entering the kitchen. 
 
 A straight-backed settle stood on 
 one side of the open hearth, an 
 armchair covered with chintz on the 
 other. A kettle was hanging in 
 the chimney high above the meagre
 
 DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 embers of the morning fire. The 
 old man swept and poked the dying 
 coals together, from a sort of instinct 
 that since they could not be saved 
 they ought not to be wasted. Then, 
 after placing a loaf and piece of 
 cheese on the table, he took a cup 
 from the dresser shelf, fetched his 
 cider, put it on the hearth, not for 
 warmth, but from force of habit, and 
 seating himself in the high-backed 
 chair, ate his lonely lunch, holding 
 his cheese securely in the palm of 
 his hand, and cutting his crust on 
 his thumb with a clasp-knife. 
 
 " Ha ! Pretty thing, to take all 
 day to goo to Rimpton," he 
 grumbled. 
 
 Meanwhile George was cantering 
 homewards on the sward by the 
 road-side, the lark above his head ; 
 the blackbird rushing from the 
 hedgerow as he passed. 
 
 Spring was not gayer than his 
 heart. 
 
 At feasts and parties he had long 
 while watched Ruth Upcott, never 
 speaking through lack of subtle 
 phrase, for early love must be con- 
 veyed delicately, like eggs or mush- 
 room. Her beauty had often made
 
 30 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 him sigh. Her father's gentility 
 kept him silent. He, the rollicking 
 miller's son, whose jokes and high 
 spirits sometimes kept company 
 roaring louder than a yule-tide fire, 
 had found never a word to say, and 
 yet he blushed at his own auda- 
 city, and it seemed almost criminal. 
 Then he laughed at his courage, 
 and gloried that come what may 
 he had kissed Ruth Upcott. 
 
 Thrice his thoughts wandered 
 a-field. Once gladly to notice how 
 the grass was coming on ; once to 
 see a little ground " most wonderful 
 snake-pipey " ; and lastly, to predict 
 that the old man would be pretty 
 sour and surly. Thus he cantered 
 home to Camel Mill. 
 
 Old Biddlecombe did not turn his 
 head as George entered, but leaning 
 forward on his chair hovering over 
 the ashes, laughed derisively. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! A mile a hour. A 
 mile a hour 'ull win noo race. Man 
 an' hoss half a day vor two mile. 
 Perty work. Perty work." 
 
 " Ebenezer Upcott's traps were 
 turned out in road, and I stopped 
 to help." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I zaw un go by.
 
 DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 Ten mile an hour a hour an' half 
 late. He didden catch the vallen 
 load. Not he. I'll warrent un. 
 Serve un right. Perty management, 
 indeed. Dree load o' traps an' noo 
 eye upon 'em." 
 
 The old man's malignity jarred 
 on George. Ebenezer Upcott was 
 nothing to him, yet he could not 
 quell a spirit of contradiction. 
 
 " Yes ; Miss Ruth was there." 
 
 "Ha! ha! Apertypiece. What 
 good's a wench except to hinder 
 some young chap, as she did you 
 as she did you, zimmy-zoo." 
 
 The miller turned suddenly and 
 glanced at his son. Beneath his 
 ragged brow gleamed a look of 
 searching inquiry. George, having 
 thrown his hat upon a chair, was 
 standing by the table cutting his 
 lunch. The high back of the old 
 brown oak settle, the black beam 
 across the dingy ceiling, and the 
 dresser of unpainted wood formed 
 a sort of frame around his stalwart 
 figure, on which the light streamed 
 through the open window. Spring 
 seemed to add warmth to his brown 
 hair, and stronger beauty to his 
 ruddy face, clean-shaven like his
 
 32 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 father's, after the fashion of those 
 days. There was picturesqueness 
 and colour about the dark patch on 
 his rusty green coat, and something 
 manly about the mud on his leather 
 gaiters. 
 
 The old man's stare became pierc- 
 ing as an auger. What experience 
 had life vouchsafed to this mis- 
 shapen piece of humanity that he 
 could look so deeply into the hearts 
 of men and things ? What passion 
 could have taught such quick detec- 
 tion of incipient love ? He continued 
 with bitterness so biting that George 
 well knew the application of each 
 word. 
 
 " Ha ! What's she ? She's no- 
 body. A peck o' pride a zack o' 
 sorrow. A pair o' fine hands an' 
 noo money. Vor what wer' zunk 
 at Cadbury wer' never zaved at 
 Lovi'ton, nor wun't be picked up 
 in Ma'ston gutter. An' Gentleman 
 Upcott, what's he ? He'll come to 
 grief an' never know the meanen 
 o' it. He'll never learn the neature 
 ov life, I tell 'ee, an' then want 'ull 
 make a bigger vool o' un. An' 
 then what have his maidens got ? 
 A bit o' hair so black as a snag, a
 
 DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 yallow-pink cheek like a honey- 
 suck, an' a pair o' warm lips. But 
 that can't last. That do all drop 
 off wi' the fall. An' poverty 's bare, 
 I tell 'ee. Poverty 's bare. An' 
 vanity's clothes a wore out in fine 
 weather be in holes avore winter. 
 Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 The manner was even more irri- 
 tating than the meaning of these 
 words ; it was so bitter in its fierce 
 scorn. It seemed to deride the 
 beauty of human life, to accuse 
 George because of follies imputed 
 to the Upcotts ; and at one-and- 
 twenty one hates derision, and is 
 not hard on folly. 
 
 " What have you got agen 'em ? 
 You never spoke to ar'n o' 'em in 
 your life but Ebenezer. You never 
 saw any o' 'em close handy." 
 
 There are drawbacks about living 
 with a village Thersites in a little 
 mill ; and George, feeling this keenly, 
 spoke with a heat so unexpected 
 that the old man rose from his chair 
 in indignation. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! They sha'n't goo in 
 finery wi' my money. Let Ebe- 
 nezer come and pay my bill. That's 
 all I do want, I tell 'ee. Let un 
 3
 
 34 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 show the colour ov his money over- 
 due. Let un come avore I do zend 
 vor un. Let un come. Let un 
 come avore " 
 
 His words were shrill with ex- 
 citement, but the torrent of his 
 anger suddenly stopped, for lo ! as 
 if obedient to the summons, the 
 yellow gig rattled into the yard and 
 pulled up before the door. 
 
 '' Miller Biddlecombe at home ? 
 I say, is Miller Biddlecombe at 
 home ? " shouted a boisterous voice, 
 and receiving an affirmative reply, 
 Upcott, uninvited, entered the 
 house. "Just walk my horse up 
 down a minute, George. He's 
 warm. I say, he's warm. I want 
 just a word with your father. Just 
 one word." 
 
 The miller had completely 
 changed. No longer ill-tempered, 
 he smiled fawningly upon his 
 visitor. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I thought you'd be 
 looking in. I said to George, pass- 
 ing so often Mr. Upcott '11 sure to 
 look in and pay that little account. 
 Take the chair, Mr. Upcott now 
 do take the chair." 
 
 The greeting disturbed Gentle-
 
 DAUGHTER. 35 
 
 man Upcott. Evidently ill at ease, 
 he took the proffered seat. The 
 miller glanced at the inconvenient 
 settle, and remained standing. 
 
 'I'll vetch pen an' ink. We 
 shall want it vor the receipt, sha'n't 
 we ? " 
 
 "Don't trouble, Mr. Biddle- 
 combe," said Upcott, quickly. "I'll 
 call and pay you in a few days, but 
 I came on another errand this after- 
 noon." 
 
 The old man turned, and steady- 
 ing himself with one hand on the 
 table, looked keenly at his guest. 
 Ebenezer's self-assurance melted. 
 Pecuniary instability seemed indi- 
 cated in his hesitating voice. 
 
 " We we've done business some 
 years, Mr. Biddlecombe, and I know 
 you, and and you know me. I 
 looked in in fact, I called, to ask 
 a little favour. Times are bad ; 
 never worse, I should think. There 
 is nothing to be done, I say there is 
 nothing to be done at present prices ; 
 in fact, I, myself, am going into a 
 smaller way of business for the 
 present. It's wiser, I say it's 
 wiser when it's ruination to sell, 
 and there's no money to buy. And,
 
 36 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 well I'm a little pushed and 
 there's the pull of house-ridding. 
 And I thought perhaps you'd let 
 me have a small matter of fifteen 
 pound for a fortnight, say, as an 
 accommodation." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Oh, yes. I know you. 
 I know you well enough," assented 
 Biddlecombe, contemplating his 
 guest with a strange smile, which 
 Upcott received as approbation. 
 
 How well he knew this man ! 
 his empty futility and vain preten- 
 sions. And Miller Biddlecombe 
 hated a fool with all the nervous 
 intensity of a quick apprehension. 
 His first impulse was to refuse, for 
 the money must certainly be lost. 
 He was too sagacious not to recog- 
 nise that ; and there would be 
 pleasure in the refusal. But the 
 altercation with George was fresh 
 in his mind, and his heart cherished 
 a deeper vindictiveness against Up- 
 cott and all his tribe. At once he 
 realised the power of money the 
 money which had never yet pur- 
 chased him a pleasure. 
 
 " We shall want pen and ink 
 after all, zimmy-zo," he said quietly, 
 as he hobbled off in search of them.
 
 DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 The readiness with which his 
 request had been granted restored 
 Gentleman Upcott's self-possession. 
 Frequent changes damage a man's 
 reputation ; but whilst money can 
 be had for the asking, credit is 
 evidently unimpaired. When old 
 Biddlecombe came back with bottle 
 and quill, Upcott spoke in his usual 
 lordly manner. " You take your 
 own chair, Mr. Biddlecombe. I say, 
 you take your own chair." 
 
 The miller did so, and drew up 
 to the table. Then he slowly 
 adjusted his spectacles, and care- 
 fully uncorked his ink. This sitting 
 down to write was a ceremony. 
 
 " I've got a vew rules o' my own, 
 Mr. Upcott. A vew maxims so to 
 speak. I don't like accounts to run. 
 'Tis like a spannel dog, you mid 
 whistle vor your money if you don't 
 call it in betimes. You shall have 
 what you do want, and a vew 
 pound more to pay my bill. He ! 
 he ! That's my rule. To have 
 bills paid. You said a fortnight. 
 But zay Gary fair. That's longer. 
 Zay, the first o' May. How'll that 
 do, Mr. Upcott, zur." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, say Gary
 
 38 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 fair," conceded Ebenezer, in the 
 airy tone of a man, to whom both 
 saying and doing are the easiest 
 matters in the world. The miller 
 slowly drew up a document, round- 
 ing each letter with affectionate 
 care, as if it were a coin of the 
 realm, and Ebenezer signed his 
 name with a bold hand and a 
 flourish at the tail. 
 
 Then Biddlecombe drew a bag 
 from his pocket and told the money 
 out in gold upon the table. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! You'd better zee it's 
 right, vive and twenty poun'," he 
 almost shrieked, " An' then you 
 can pay back my bill." Thus the 
 outstanding debt was settled : the 
 miller's maxim suffered no outrage ; 
 and Ebenezer was ready to de- 
 part. 
 
 " Stop one minute, Mr. Upcott. 
 Young eyes be sharp, and tongues 
 do run like vire. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 He buttoned the document in his 
 breeches pocket, and hid a stray 
 piece of paper under his chair. He 
 brought an account book from the 
 dresser cupboard and laid it on the 
 table beside the coins, making a 
 great mystery over a very small
 
 DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 matter. " Zend in George, Mr. 
 Upcott, will 'ee, please ? " 
 
 " Thank ye, George. I say, thank 
 ye. Your father wants you, 
 George," bellowed Upcott, as he 
 mounted the gig and drove away. 
 
 When George entered the old 
 man was smoking his pipe and 
 seemed quite placable. 
 
 " Mark off Ebenezer Upcott's 
 account, George. Count over the 
 money there. He wanted to run 
 on, but I made un pay up. He'll 
 come to nothen as sure as a gun. 
 He's a gwaine there straight 
 enough. Eight maidens an' not a 
 penny-piece among 'em. Not a 
 varden. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 So George crossed off the entries 
 after the manner of those days. He 
 felt glad. The debt being paid, his 
 father's constant criticisms must 
 cease. Nor was the picture of Ruth 
 penniless so very pitiable. It 
 seemed to bring her closer to 
 him. 
 
 That evening, after dark, father 
 and son were sitting together by the 
 hearth. The wood fire lit up the 
 room and shone upon their faces. 
 The old man, holding his hands
 
 40 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S DAUGHTER. 
 
 towards the warmth, was thought- 
 ful and silent. At last he said : 
 
 " I be getting wold, George, an' 
 zome day you'll vind a maid to your 
 mind an' marry. Then I'll gie up 
 the mill an' go into the cottage. 
 But I'll tell 'ee a vew maxims. 
 Don't 'ee wed too young or you'll 
 repent wi' the growth o' wisdom. 
 And don't 'ee wait to be wold or 
 you'll be over-wise to agree. An' 
 don't 'ee wed where there's many 
 or oone '11 come to beg o' 'ee. Nor 
 'eet where there's but oone, for she 
 got a tert tempter. An' George, 
 mind this, a vortune a parted is noo 
 vortune at all, vor ten poun' in a 
 crock is mwore than eighty divided 
 by nine. But none o' your Up- 
 cotts, George. Why, he's under 
 water already, and one fine day 
 somebody '11 push un down. You 
 can do better than that. You rnid 
 pick an' choose, I tell 'ee, you mid 
 pick an' choose." 
 
 But George, too wise to answer, 
 sat staring upon the burning sticks.
 
 III. 
 
 ALL FOOL'S DAY. 
 
 )RECISELYa week elapsed 
 and the Upcotts were 
 settled in their new 
 home. The kitchen 
 clock, disfigured truly, 
 but with soul unimpaired, 
 ticked deliberately in the hall. The 
 remainder of the furniture had 
 been adjusted to the satisfaction, 
 even of Ebenezer. 
 
 The front door was open. So 
 was the back. Thus the passers-by 
 could look through the wide pas- 
 sage into a kitchen garden ; could 
 see the clothes line with various 
 garments waving in the wind like 
 flags on a gala day, and the milk 
 pails by the path, now empty but 
 handy for use. 
 
 And there stood Ruth in a print
 
 42 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 dress with upturned sleeves, staring 
 into the air ; and Mrs. Upcott, 
 shading her eyes with her hand, her 
 placid face puckered with per- 
 plexity. On a tressle behind them 
 stood Ebenezer, his head elevated 
 out of sight, but from the tip-toeing 
 of the top-boots it was evident that 
 he was staring also. 
 
 People do not stand thus for 
 nothing, even on April morning. 
 No passer, with eyes in his head 
 and a heart in his bosom, could fail 
 to see them or to ask the question, 
 " What can be the matter ? " 
 
 And George, on his way to 
 Adber, stopped a minute, for star- 
 ing is infectious, and he caught it 
 from Ruth. Presently it occurred 
 to him that if anything was ' going 
 on ' too difficult for three people to 
 encompass he might just lend a 
 hand. So uninvited, he walked 
 through the house. 
 
 "Ho ! ho ! George Biddlecombe," 
 cried Ebenezer. 
 
 u How d'ye do, George Biddle- 
 combe ? " purred Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Biddle- 
 combe," said Ruth, and her cheek 
 slightly ripened as she tossed her
 
 DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 head probably to continue her in- 
 vestigations. 
 
 Nothing was going on but time ; 
 and they were all looking at the 
 sun-dial on the gable, with its 
 quaintly-spelt motto almost obli- 
 terated. 
 
 " It's gone out. I say, it's gone 
 out," cried Upcott, abruptly. "7 
 can't read it." 
 
 " Yes, I do expect 'tis gone out," 
 echoed his wife, smiling pleasantly 
 to find so easy a solution of the 
 difficulty. 
 
 " You do want the little ladder," 
 suggested George. 
 
 " Why, and zo we do, to be 
 sure," admitted Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 "That's no good. I say, that's 
 no good. It's gone out." 
 
 But George, having found a 
 ladder against the garden-wall, 
 brought and raised it upside down 
 because several rungs were missing 
 from the bottom. Then he 
 mounted and read : 
 
 " AS SHADOWE, SO MAN SPEEDOTH." 
 
 " Ho ! ho ! Is that all," shouted 
 Ebenezer, contemptuous of the
 
 44 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 past, which spelt trite wisdom 
 badly. 
 
 a But we do like to know," softly 
 murmured Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " A goodish place this, once," said 
 George. 
 
 " Ha ! George Biddlecombe, and 
 you'll see a change before I've been 
 here long, /can tell you." 
 
 " Yes, you may be sure there'll be 
 a change before Ebenezer's in a 
 place long," corroborated Mrs. Up- 
 cott in simple loyalty to her good- 
 man. 
 
 Her praise pleased him, and 
 modified the condemnation of waste 
 of time, which immediately fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 "Well, well. Come, come. 
 Standing about all day. Come, 
 Ruth, you know you've got to go 
 to Adber." 
 
 To go to Adber ! The words 
 fell on George's heart like an April 
 shower around a tuberous root, and 
 Love started like something her- 
 baceous which grows quickly. He 
 could scarcely find words to wish 
 them good-morning. He well, he 
 supposed he must be getting on 
 and went.
 
 DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 There are two ways to Adbcr ; 
 and two ways, Avhether in Life or 
 Love, are quite sufficient to create 
 a difficulty. Mathematically, the 
 betting is even ; morally, it is ten to 
 one a man goes wrong. And if he 
 do but sit on a stile and reflect, 
 the whole neighbourhood wonders 
 whether he is going to borrow or lend 
 money on the adjoining property. 
 
 Whilst George stood hesitating 
 in the highway to his indecision 
 was added a doubt. Her greeting 
 had been cold and distant. Per- 
 haps a walk to Adber would be 
 going a little too far. But no man 
 on earth can help meeting a pretty 
 girl on a public footpath if she 
 comes that way. No blame attaches 
 to that. And whilst he was de- 
 liberating, Ruth tripped down the 
 lane which enters the high-road 
 behind the village church. 
 
 Her toilet had taken little time. 
 A garden bonnet on her head, a red 
 silk kerchief folded over her throat, 
 a small basket on her arm. Thus 
 was she equipped, but not all 
 Nature in spring-time could show a 
 fresher, brighter thing than Ruth, 
 on a path paved with Keinton stone,
 
 46 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S 
 
 and sheltered by the crumbling 
 lichen-covered wall. The quiet 
 background added to the vivid 
 beauty of her bright eyes and glow- 
 ing cheeks. There was nothing like 
 it in the landscape ; for only homely 
 flowers face the wind and rain, whilst 
 gay ones withhold their passionate 
 warmth for summer. And Ruth 
 moved with the grace of youth un- 
 broken to sorrow, and the light joy 
 which makes of movement an 
 abounding pleasure. 
 
 She was fancy-free ; which 
 means that she was full of fancies 
 and free to indulge in them. And 
 she did. Wild visions and generous 
 impulses inhabited the transparent 
 depths of her soul in shoals. In her 
 heart was nothing hidden, neither 
 the romance nor the caprice, and 
 least of all, the mad intolerance of 
 meanness which people mistook for 
 giddiness when they called her 
 Harum-scarum. As she walked she 
 looked upon the ground, being busy 
 with her thoughts. A penny for 
 them, Ruth, a penny. Would they 
 adorned this page, fresh and sweet 
 as the early cowslip budding in the 
 meadow.
 
 DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 Seeing George, she looked con- 
 scious, perhaps remembering his 
 recent kiss ; and he confused, feel- 
 ing guilty of having waylaid her. 
 Neither possessed address to conceal 
 abashment, and thus they became 
 compromised by their own blushes. 
 
 " I thought I thought perhaps 
 you didn't know the short cut." 
 
 " Oh ! The high-road does for 
 me, thank you." 
 
 " Not but what / like the high- 
 road myself." 
 
 " Though I suppose the short cut 
 is quicker." 
 
 " 'Tis that," said George, after 
 grave deliberation. 
 
 They wisely entered the meadows 
 where the path goes parallel to the 
 hedgerow, and a rough plank of 
 elm serves as a bridge over the 
 gully. 
 
 "Things be wonderful for'ard," 
 began George, briskly. 
 
 " I suppose 'tis the season," she 
 replied, with quick perception of 
 cause and effect. 
 
 " Tthout doubt." 
 
 They had reached a stone stile, 
 and by aid of his hand she stepped 
 upon the top, and alighted on the
 
 48 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 other side. A magpie arose close 
 by and flew across the path. 
 
 " Bad luck ! " she cried, affecting 
 disbelief in a superstition she scarcely 
 dared deny. " Now I suppose my 
 sitting o' turkey eggs '11 all be 
 addled." 
 
 " There's nothing in that." 
 
 " Well, all I know is, when father 
 went to look at Lovington he met 
 one magpie, and the very same day 
 two little sparked cows and the 
 donkey died with eating yew-leaf. 
 So it shows things do happen 
 whether or no." 
 
 Before George could combat this 
 conclusive argument two more 
 flying magpies averted the omen 
 from mourning into marriage. 
 
 "Well now. That's better," he 
 cried. 
 
 " Lo ! That might be the worst 
 luck of all." 
 
 Budding hedgerows were high on 
 every side. Patches of blue sky 
 peered through the April clouds, 
 and birds were busy with mating 
 and melody. Yet George could 
 find no courage before a retort so 
 pregnant Avith truth that it defied 
 contradiction. There was no mirth
 
 DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 now in their conversation. None of 
 the half-romping gaiety which 
 accompanied the salvation of the 
 furniture. She would not even look 
 at him ; but walked intent on the 
 grasses at her feet, thinking perhaps 
 of the many disasters which ship- 
 wreck matrimony. 
 
 " Well, I hope you'll have luck to 
 year wi' your turkeys, I'm sure ; or 
 wi' anything else for the matter o' 
 that." But even good wishes were 
 a failure, and George felt that an 
 opportunity had fallen flat. 
 
 As he held open the gate into the 
 high-road their eyes met. She was 
 safe now, and laughing at him, held 
 out her hand to say good-day. 
 
 " But you'll have to go back," he 
 cried, eager to express his love now 
 that it was too late. 
 
 k< Very likely I might stay about." 
 
 " But I'd wait. I'd wait till mid- 
 night." 
 
 u I couldn't think of it." 
 
 " And I can't help thinking about 
 it, Ruth." 
 
 There was something pathetic if 
 
 not hopeless in the admission ; yet 
 
 it filled her with strange exultation. 
 
 In spring-time Love is sweet. 
 
 4
 
 50 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 Whether you will pluck it or no the 
 first primrose is a promise of gayer 
 flowers in store. 
 
 She tossed her head. "I don't 
 believe that," said rosy lips which 
 belied her heart. 
 
 " It's no lie," he said, emphatically. 
 "If it was the last word I had to 
 speak. I cannot help loving the 
 very ground you tread on." 
 
 "There's no objection to that," 
 she said, gaily, and he felt put down. 
 
 Then from the distance came the 
 sound of a horse's feet beating a 
 smart trot on the hard spring road. 
 Her mirth ceased. " Here's father," 
 she said, and the words seemed a 
 presentiment of evil. 
 
 But Gentleman Upcott's face was 
 all smiles and excitement. His 
 errand was so important that he 
 could not wait, but shouted as he 
 passed. " Come, Ruth. Come. 
 Your Uncle Granger is up at Simon 
 Sly's. Don't be wasting half the 
 day." 
 
 So she said good-bye to George, 
 and hurried to the little dairy-farm 
 to fetch the turkey eggs. 
 
 Her father's horse was tied to the 
 railings before the homestead.
 
 DAUGHTER. 5! 
 
 From somewhere beneath the old 
 thatched roof came her father's voice 
 raised in violent indignation. 
 
 " Then where is Mr. Granger ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Mr. Upcott, I 
 don't know." 
 
 " But I was sent for. I say, I was 
 sent for." 
 
 " Not by we, Mr. Upcott, not by 
 we." 
 
 " Then who was it ? I demand, 
 who was it ? " 
 
 " I know no more than the babe 
 unborn," protested the dairyman. 
 " Unless 'twas zumbody a-maken 
 o' 'ee a April vool. 'Tis the first o' 
 April, Mr. Upcott, you zee." 
 
 Mr. Upcott saw it all. He, Ebe- 
 nezer Upcott, had been made an April 
 fool. Some young idiot with no 
 respect for age or position had 
 taken this egregious liberty. The 
 miller's waggon left the message. 
 Why it was as clear as day. This 
 must be one of young George 
 Biddlccombe's pranks. All the 
 country-side knew he was full of 
 them. 
 
 " Then I'll tell you," cried Ebe- 
 nezer. u 'Twas George Biddle- 
 combe. That's who 'twas. Or what
 
 52 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 was he out here in the road for ? 
 A fine sight to see me ride up, I dare 
 say. I say, a fine sight." Turning 
 towards the door he saw Ruth. 
 " And what did you want out there 
 talking to him ? Have you com- 
 bined to make your father an April 
 fool ? What does a daughter o' 
 mine want speaking to such a 
 fellow as that. He's not a fit com- 
 panion for a daughter o' mine." 
 
 "Well there. Tis the first o' 
 April, Mr. Upcott," said the dairy- 
 man, but the explanation brought 
 no salve to Ebenezer's wounded 
 vanity. 
 
 " A joke's a joke. I say a joke's 
 a joke," he shouted. But a joke is 
 never a good joke unless perpetrated 
 on somebody else. 
 
 Gentleman Upcott mounted his 
 horse and rode off, and Ruth with 
 the eggs in her basket presently 
 followed him. 
 
 Ashamed of her father's exhibi- 
 tion of violence she hurried home- 
 wards, not venturing to cross the 
 fields lest Biddlecombe might be 
 waiting for her. She was angry 
 too. It was so unjust. How could 
 she help his walking with her to
 
 DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 Adbcr. The public footpath is 
 free and he had his own mind to 
 use. And to be so foolish, too, before 
 a dairyman, making every one ridicu- 
 lous. It was enough to make her 
 hate her home. Indeed she should 
 talk to George Biddlecombe if she 
 liked. 
 
 Filled with impatience she walked 
 quickly and soon reached the corner 
 where three elms once stood as a 
 sort of land-mark. To her dismay 
 George was standing there engaged 
 in altercation with her father. 
 
 " You did. I say, you did. I 
 don't believe it. I say, I don't 
 believe it. You came up here on 
 purpose to see me pass. You don't 
 pretend to have an errand up here. 
 Then what did you come up here 
 for ? 'Twas your carter left word, 
 and that proves it. I say, that 
 proves it. And I've got a good 
 mind to lay my whip about your 
 back." 
 
 Even the respect due to the father 
 of Ruth was insufficient to overcome 
 the young man's indignation. 
 
 " If you were a man of my own 
 age I'd knock you off your horse 
 pretty quick," he retorted, It was
 
 54 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 no threat but an explanation of for- 
 bearance which under other circum- 
 stances might be unmanly. 
 
 " You threaten me on the king's 
 highway. I'll have the law of you, 
 I will." Then losing self-restraint, 
 he raised his whip and struck George 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 A cry of astonishment ; and they 
 looked round to see Ruth close by 
 them. Perhaps her presence 
 brought safety to Gentleman Up- 
 cott, for George stood one moment 
 undecided ; then turned and walked 
 away. 
 
 "And what are you doing here. 
 You're my witness. You heard 
 him say he'd knock me off my 
 horse." 
 
 Too frightened to reply, Ruth 
 hurried past her father, who pre- 
 sently opened a gate and entered 
 one of his fields. She saw the sheep 
 gallop away in a flock as he rode 
 across ten-acres. 
 
 In the lane by the church she met 
 her mother coming in great haste, 
 an apron over her head, and shading 
 her eyes with her hand. The good 
 soul peered and peeped in all direc- 
 tions between the trunks of trees
 
 DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 growing in the hedgerows. Her 
 placid face was ruffled. But sorrow 
 brought no storm to her sweet 
 maternal nature. Only a soft 
 melancholy like a west wind sighing 
 and moaning amongst mountains. 
 
 " Oh, Ruth dear. Where-ever is 
 your father ? I have been zo voolish. 
 Why of course it was at Zolomon 
 Sly's at Rimpton that your Uncle 
 Granger was. And I really do 
 believe I zaid Zimon. No doubt I 
 did zay Zimon because your father's 
 gone there. And I might ha' 
 known because the waggon came on 
 from Rimpton, an' that proves it. 
 And your father '11 be so angry. 
 And perhaps your Uncle Granger 
 can't wait. And that '11 be such a 
 pity because he's so particular, and 
 the only uncle I've got, and in such 
 bad health too which makes such a 
 difference. Where is your father ? 
 Could ee find your father, child ? " 
 " No. I couldn't, mother." 
 "Why what's the matter, maid ?" 
 The girl's bosom was heaving, her 
 lips quivering. She could scarcely 
 find words to speak. 
 
 " I knew George Biddlecombe 
 didn't do it. Why he helped us
 
 56 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 with the furniture, and and and 
 all." 
 
 Ruth stopped. The word was 
 comprehensive, but no one knew 
 that it embraced a kiss. u I shall 
 go out, mother. Nelly, or Sally, or 
 Jinny, or Sempy, would just as zoon 
 be home. I would rather be out. 
 And such wild sayings, and to come 
 to blows " 
 
 " Blows, child ? " 
 
 " Yes. Father hit him." 
 
 The words were more than his- 
 tory ; they were an accusation. 
 
 " Ruth," said her mother, and her 
 eyes looked like April a cloud of 
 doubt overhanging the wisdom, and 
 a gleam of hope brightening the 
 romance of it, "you an' George 
 bean't a thinken' o' each other, 
 be?" 
 
 (< I don't know," said the girl, 
 and, opening a door in the wall, she 
 entered the kitchen garden. 
 
 The window of her bedroom 
 looked out upon the road. 
 
 " Mother ! " she presently cried, 
 "it's all right. There's Uncle 
 Granger driving through the brook 
 in his little low trap." 
 
 Mrs, Upcott, all smiles, ran out
 
 DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 to welcome her important relative. 
 John Sprackman led away the pony 
 and cart, but Ruth still remained up- 
 stairs. She wished to be alone, and 
 stood looking out of the window. 
 Presently she withdrew hastily as a 
 tall figure came in sight on the road. 
 Peeping from behind the curtain, she 
 watched him pass ; but George did 
 not even glance at the house. At 
 that moment she would have given 
 the world to disassociate herself from 
 her father's conduct. She put her 
 head out of the window to watch 
 him out of sight. He was so tall 
 and manly, so bold in physique, yet 
 so easily disconcerted ; she could not 
 help liking even when she laughed 
 at him. And now the laughter was 
 dispelled, and only the liking re- 
 mained. Suddenly he looked round, 
 and her heart beat fast. How could 
 it happen to a girl so proud and 
 shy ? The action was impulsive 
 almost automatical. In an out- 
 burst of generosity, she she kissed 
 her hand to him.
 
 IV. 
 
 UNCLE GRANGER. 
 
 >F man ever deserved to be 
 feted by his family, so 
 did Uncle Granger. 
 Money, judgment, and 
 a genius for dealing were 
 his ; also quiet mirth 
 and a suppressed gout, which at 
 any moment might fly to his 
 stomach. Would that you, that I, 
 that all the world possessed so ex- 
 emplary a bachelor uncle in such 
 comfortable circumstances. 
 
 Besides being Ruth's great uncle, 
 he was a great man ; having land 
 both let and in hand ; and infinite 
 was the number of men he could 
 " buy up." Nature and Fortune 
 had been so prodigal that he was 
 scant of nothing but breath. In 
 age he was " well on in the zixties." 
 58
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 In weight, estimated by the standard 
 used for the valuation of bullocks, 
 he was wont to speak of himself as 
 " up vourteen score." For these 
 reasons he could not walk much ; 
 and for short distances he used to 
 waddle. Yet 'many people ques- 
 tioned whether it was so much his 
 weight after all, as some sort of 
 weakness which " had het into his 
 huckle-bones." Perhaps a chill 
 caught riding in the little low cart, 
 which really did shake Uncle 
 Granger a goodish bit. 
 
 In one respect he resembled his 
 niece, Mrs. Upcott. Nothing per- 
 turbed him. He was the most con- 
 tented man alive. With a long 
 pipe, and a drop of cider or gin and 
 water " just to moisten the clay " 
 for human clay cannot endure dry- 
 ness he loved to sit for hours, and 
 jest and laugh, and hear the same 
 story over again. 
 
 His most remote relations loved 
 him, and as he never displayed 
 partiality unimpaired hope sustained 
 them all. What Uncle Granger 
 would do in the event of being 
 suddenly called upon to make depo- 
 sition by will became a central
 
 60 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 problem of Life, competing with 
 free will, free grace, good works, 
 or any combination of these ; but 
 relatives rallied round one central 
 faith, that when Uncle Granger 
 should be taken it would be seen 
 that he had done right. Thus, as 
 in a game of chance, interest never 
 flagged. Every relative played his 
 best. One out of compliment 
 claimed to "take after" Uncle 
 Granger in the matter of weak 
 huckle - bones, and imitation is 
 surely the sincerest form of flattery. 
 Another sent him tracts hoping to 
 touch Uncle Granger's heart with 
 doctrinal truth, and establish sym- 
 pathy through similarity of spiritual 
 experience. Therefore an air of 
 holiday followed him. In his 
 presence cupboards containing 
 skeletons were kept locked, and 
 pantries yielded their most sacred 
 pastries. Mrs. Upcott took out one 
 of the puddings kept over from 
 Christmas against sheep-shearing, 
 and cooked the little leg of mutton 
 hanging for Sunday. 
 
 "Do'ee zit down, Uncle Granger," 
 she said, with sweet solicitude. 
 
 " I must, out o' love vor my
 
 DAUGHTER. 6 1 
 
 knees. 'Tis the only way I can 
 zee 'em," replied Uncle Granger. 
 
 He sat with his hands crossed on 
 the handle of his stick, an attitude 
 which did much to support his 
 reputation for wonderful sense. You 
 could rarely guess his thoughts, 
 and he never disclosed them ; but 
 doubt sometimes agitated the rela- 
 tives as to whether Uncle Granger 
 seemingly absorbed might not in 
 reality be absorbing. Anxious to 
 nicely adjust their conduct, they 
 complained that no one could really 
 tell what Uncle Granger did think. 
 " But he do zee all," they agreed, 
 and this sphinx-like appearance of 
 profundity, with money in the bank, 
 begot much deference. In his 
 presence even Ebenezer softened his 
 manners, becoming not less dog- 
 matic, but more considerate. 
 
 " I call a man a fool who says 
 otherwise. What do you say, Uncle 
 Granger ? " 
 
 " Why here is Ebenezer ! " said 
 Mrs. Upcott, congratulating both 
 herself and her guest. 
 
 " Well done, Uncle Granger. 
 This is good for sore eyes. I say 
 it's good for sore eyes to see you
 
 62 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 here. It's not all could be wished 
 at present. But there 's welcome. 
 I say, there 's welcome. But I've 
 been made a fool of. I've been sent 
 on a fool's errand." And as vanity 
 cannot keep counsel, Ebenezer gave 
 his version of the morning's ad- 
 venture. 
 
 " And it was Zolomon Sly's after 
 all," explained Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " Solomon's ? I was told Simon's. 
 I repeat, I was told Simon's." 
 
 " And I zenden' an' worritten' to 
 think you'd gone wrong." 
 
 " 7" gone wrong ! I never went 
 wrong. I went where I was told. I 
 say, I went where I was told." 
 
 " And I suppwose I told 'ee wrong. 
 I really suppwose I did." 
 
 " Not that. I don't believe it. I 
 affirm I've been made a fool of first, 
 and then threatened on the king's 
 highway. And I'm not the man to 
 stand that sort of thing from a 
 fellow like George Biddlecombe. 
 I'll summon him. I'll indict him. 
 I'll I'll I'll impeach him. And 
 I dare any one here to speak to him 
 again. Ruth's my witness. Where's 
 Ruth ? I say, where's Ruth ? Ruth ! 
 Ruth ! "
 
 DAUGHTER. 63 
 
 To Mrs. Upcott's doubt as to 
 what Uncle Granger might be 
 thinking, was added a misgiving as 
 to what Uncle Granger would think. 
 
 " La ! Ebenezer. The maid 's a 
 changen' her vrock. There, do 'ee 
 zit down." 
 
 But when at last Ruth appeared 
 matters were not mended. A 
 tragedy was written on her face ; 
 her eyes flashed indignation, and 
 rebellion was in her gait. Uncle 
 Granger shaking hands, knuckles 
 upwards, thought her a very pretty 
 maid. 
 
 " You heard what he said. I say, 
 you heard what he said," cried her 
 father. a You're not to speak to 
 that young man again." 
 
 " Because you find he did not 
 make you an April fool ? " 
 
 " Ruth ! " moaned her mother. 
 
 Uncle Granger chuckled ap- 
 provingly. He was fond of cock- 
 fighting, and admired gameness 
 even in a pullet. 
 
 " There shall be no nonsense 
 where I am. I say, I'll have no 
 nonsense under my roof." 
 
 " I I'd rather go out." 
 
 "By all means. I say, by all
 
 64 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 means. We'll have no compulsion 
 here no compulsion here," cried 
 Upcott, in his most tyrannous tone. 
 
 Ruth had no reply but tears. 
 
 " There ! there ! " cooed Mrs. 
 Upcott. "Do let's be happy, and 
 get dinner to once." Thus for a 
 time the difficulty was conveniently 
 smothered in hospitality. 
 
 But to half a century's silent 
 accumulation of wisdom and ex- 
 perience, the recent winter had 
 added in Uncle Granger's mind a 
 definite practical idea an idea 
 which got uppermost, and drove 
 the little low two-wheel to Marston 
 that morning. He watched atten- 
 tively whilst Ruth laid the cloth and 
 set the dishes with her neat hand. 
 
 " A 'ooman," he said, solemnly, 
 "is a wonderful handy thing in a 
 house." 
 
 It is a proposition which no 
 woman dare dispute, yet alarm over- 
 came Mrs. Upcott's habitual smile. 
 Half the revolutionary doctrines 
 which distress the present age are 
 harmless except in application. A 
 wonderful handy woman often de- 
 stroy the hopes and upsets the cal- 
 culations of a whole family.
 
 DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 " How's Mrs. Toop ? " she asked. 
 
 " The wold quaddle," replied 
 Uncle Granger, vindictively. 
 
 " There, you do want one o' your 
 own kin not a wold body like she." 
 
 " Have me for housekeeper, Uncle 
 Granger," cried Ruth, putting her 
 hand on the old man's shoulder. 
 
 " Tut, tut. We should zoon hear 
 wedden' bells if I can read right. I 
 don't want the parish put by the 
 ears. We don't want to mend the 
 parish roads wi' broken hearts. But 
 what 'ud 'ee want ? " he asked, with 
 the craft of an old bargain-maker. 
 
 " I'd come for clothes an' keep, 
 Uncle Granger." 
 
 " Done ! " he cried, and shook 
 hands as if consummating the sale 
 of a bullock. 
 
 " But not to be under Mrs. Toop," 
 demurred her mother. 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " Nor yet to be picken' anybody 
 out of their place." 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 a She'll go on a visit. I say, she 
 can only go on a long visit," cried 
 Ebenezer. 
 
 And so the thing was settled to 
 everybody's satisfaction. Mrs. Up- 
 5
 
 66 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 cott smiled more sweetly than ever 
 in exultation at having upset the 
 calculations of Uncle Granger's 
 imaginary woman. Ebenezer was 
 pleased too ; for not only is it a 
 good thing to keep a member of 
 the family always under the eye of a 
 rich relative, but it costs less than 
 living at home. 
 
 Ruth was for going that day. 
 " Then I'll pack my Sunday things 
 at once, and " 
 
 But Uncle Granger shook his head . 
 He seemed to suffer some sort of 
 moral qualm as he said slowly, " But 
 perhaps I'd better to mention it to 
 Mrs. Toop first. What do you 
 think, Eliza ? " 
 
 "Whatever you think, Uncle 
 Granger." 
 
 "Then what if we were to say 
 this day week." 
 
 So with perfect unanimity they 
 said this day week.
 
 V. 
 
 SOME REFLECTIONS ON A LEGHORN 
 HAT. 
 
 "HE week passed quite 
 slowly, heavily indeed, 
 in spite of the sweet 
 April weather ; for some- 
 thing like a sigh hung 
 around Ruth Upcott's 
 heart and oppressed her thoughts. 
 She was not in love, not a bit of it. 
 That was what made it so strange 
 that she must keep thinking of 
 George Biddlecombe. But the 
 thoughts would arise with the 
 persistency of April clouds, some 
 ominous and gloomy as her father's 
 quarrel, some white as silver or a 
 bridal robe, and the others a little 
 of each, like the magpies in the 
 Adber meadow. But he never 
 came that way, or if so she did not 
 67
 
 68 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 see him. And in her moments of 
 leisure she sat in the window too, 
 trimming a Leghorn hat. 
 
 When the day arrived for her 
 departure Uncle Granger was so 
 late that she began to fear he had 
 forgotten her. But towards even- 
 ing he came, drank a glass of gin- 
 and- water without alighting from 
 the little low cart, and was ready to 
 start at once. It was only a mile 
 to Rimpton. 
 
 Uncle Granger's house was un- 
 pretentious and homely. A group 
 of ragged pines in the home field 
 imparted a certain dignity to the 
 place, but the low thatched roof, 
 with its snug dormer windows, was 
 almost hidden in dark orchards. It 
 stood remote from the road, being 
 approached by a sort of drove across 
 a couple of fields. A gander and 
 two geese gabbled and hissed as the 
 little low cart jolted amongst the 
 deep ruts. Three magpies flew out 
 of the pine-trees as they passed. 
 
 The homestead was enclosed in a 
 fence of blue Keinton stone. An 
 old grape-vine trained over the 
 porch and around the mullioned 
 windows covered the front, and
 
 DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 nests of last year's swallows still 
 adhered to the overhanging eaves, 
 in which sparrows had made in- 
 numerable holes. The oaken door, 
 studded with large-headed nails, 
 stood open with habitual hospi- 
 tality ; but the little garden hatch, 
 padlocked to keep out pigs, precluded 
 entrance by that way. In the 
 garden was Mrs. Toop. 
 
 " There ! that's how she do 
 bide an' spuddle about," said Uncle 
 Granger, contemptuously. 
 
 The "wold quaddle" was making 
 excavations in a flower border with 
 a trowel. As they drove past she 
 nodded grimly to the visitor. Quite 
 apart from a certain jealousy of 
 Ruth's presence, Mrs. Toop found 
 no enjoyment in the society of 
 young flighty girls. 
 
 " Young George Biddlecombe 's 
 been here about the meal. He's 
 just gone down in village; he'll 
 be back in a minute," piped her 
 shrill voice. 
 
 At the mention of his name Ruth 
 Upcott trembled and blushed so 
 deeply that she could not hide her 
 confusion. She had been wanting 
 to see him, yet now she felt impa-
 
 70 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 tiently that the man and the mag- 
 pies were present at every turn she 
 took. Fate seemed to encompass 
 her, but she did not know her own 
 mind, and felt afraid. Before she 
 had time to recover there he was, 
 holding open the orchard gate for 
 the little low trap to pass through. 
 He looked quite merry, and the 
 evening sun shone on his rosy face 
 through the dark branches of an 
 apple-tree. 
 
 "Walk in, George. Walk in 
 with Miss Upcott," cried Uncle 
 Granger. 
 
 " Thank you ; I wont stay," said 
 George, more for manners than 
 meaning. " Unless I could help in 
 the little box." And, seizing it 
 without more ado, he carried the 
 paper-covered trunk through the 
 dairy into the house. Uncle Granger 
 drove round to the stable. Ruth, 
 George, and the trunk went into the 
 kitchen. The dusk was creeping over 
 Gorton hill ; but the bright rays of 
 the fire, recently made up to boil the 
 kettle, danced on the stone floor 
 more gaily than sunlight. The 
 " wold quaddle," muttering indig- 
 nation, continued to spuddle in
 
 DAUGHTER. 1 1 
 
 defiance long after it was too dark 
 to spuddle effectively. So they 
 had the kitchen to themselves. 
 
 " 'Tis coldish to drive," said 
 Ruth, seating herself in the chim- 
 ney corner beneath the wooden salt- 
 box and the bacon flitch. 
 
 '"Tis that," replied George, sitting 
 beside her. 
 
 " A bit o' fire do seem good ; " and 
 she held her hand towards it. 
 
 " Do that." As he imitated her 
 movement their hands touched, and 
 no longer feeling the need of words, 
 he boldly put his arm around her 
 waist in the good old fashion of the 
 old courting corner. 
 
 "You mustn't," she said, with 
 some irritation, but she could not 
 move away, being already in the 
 innermost nook. And so he did. 
 
 " Come out in orchard to-morrow. 
 There by the little stile over-right 
 the pit," he whispered. 
 
 " Why, there's nothing down 
 there, is there ? " 
 
 " I'll come across." 
 
 It was almost dark outside, and the 
 solitary blackbird, just now piping of 
 love and spring-time in the crab-tree 
 by the home-field hedgerow, ceased
 
 72 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S 
 
 his song. But something more 
 solemn than evening cast a shade 
 upon the window. The "wold 
 quaddle," forced to give up garden- 
 ing, rose and peered into the brigh- 
 tened room. At this unguarded 
 moment, betwixt day and night, 
 before the shutters hide the secrets 
 of the hearth, one may sometimes 
 catch glimpses of the soul of do- 
 mestic life. But eyes cannot truly 
 see what the heart has never suf- 
 fered. There Mrs. Toop saw things 
 things such as never happened 
 when she was young things which, 
 viewed by firelight through the 
 clear retrospect of a long spinsterly 
 experience, appeared uncalled for 
 and unreal. George was holding 
 Ruth's hand. He was leaning for- 
 ward to look into the girl's face, as 
 she bent her head towards the glow- 
 ing brand. Their lips were silent 
 only parted with the mute eloquence 
 of the infancy of Love. 
 
 And you would scarcely believe 
 it, that the brazen thing the slut 
 (that ever Mrs. Toop should use the 
 word), was looking as simple and as 
 sheep-faced as if butter wouldn't 
 melt in her mouth. The old lady
 
 DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 hurried indoors trowel in hand, but 
 George was sitting on the other side 
 of the hearth. 
 
 This earth has seen bold men, 
 but none had ever the temerity to 
 marry Mrs. Toop. Nor did tradi- 
 tion speak of any who had ever 
 proposed it. Toop was a merely 
 maiden name, upon which brevet 
 rank had eventually been conferred ; 
 and, indeed, generous-minded people 
 often went so far as to speak of 
 "wold mother Toop." 
 
 Tall, thin, and angular, she habi- 
 tually wore long-waisted black, 
 bristling with bugles, perhaps the 
 better to sustain her rank and posi- 
 tion, perhaps as a complimentary 
 mourning for the Toop who had 
 never been. She was very thin ; 
 thin both body and soul. People 
 in that neighbourhood called her 
 " vinnied," meaning that the blood 
 in her veins was blue, and that she 
 lacked generosity like a skim cheese. 
 As she shook hands with the daugh- 
 ter of Gentleman Upcott she smiled 
 with the joviality of a sore-throat 
 sucking an acid drop. 
 
 " You've come down on one like 
 a thunderclap, for sure Mr. Granger
 
 74 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S 
 
 forgot to tell me till yesterday," she 
 said ; "not but what it's a great com- 
 pliment, though how he could ha' 
 forgot it, I can't think. You'll be 
 quite an acquisition, Miss Upcott ; 
 quite, I'm sure. You'll be able to 
 tell Camel volk that I shall be free 
 to run over sometimes now there's 
 somebody here to look to the house 
 a bit. You could say, George Bid- 
 dlecombe, to Cousin Toop that per- 
 haps I might come over on the first 
 fine day. It will be all holiday- 
 times now, I'm sure." 
 
 Just then Uncle Granger waddled 
 in, and they supped on bread and 
 cheese and cider, sitting around the 
 fire. George's errand did not trans- 
 pire, and he had evidently forgotten 
 about the meal. The conversation 
 turned on the wonderful promise of 
 apple-blowing if it shouldn't all get 
 cut off. But a proud spring often 
 gets its comb cut, and the greatest 
 blessing in Nature is all the seasons 
 in their turn. This truth having 
 been examined in every aspect, and 
 illustrated by reference to late frosts 
 and their consequences in Uncle 
 Granger's youth, George cantered 
 home on his old mare.
 
 DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 " An' you be a pretty maid ! " cried 
 Uncle Granger, shaking a fat finger 
 at his niece, but whether in accusa- 
 tion, warning, or approval, she could 
 not tell. " Come, light your cannel ; 
 we wunt turn night into day. You 
 do know the room." 
 
 She looked from the dormer win- 
 dow through a glade of apple-trees, 
 and the bars of the little stile over- 
 right the pit were shining in the 
 moonlight. Should she go ? She 
 could not feel quite sure, but 
 pictured herself teasing him by 
 constantly appearing in the orchard, 
 but never departing from the pre- 
 cincts of the house. Then she 
 opened the box, and from the tray 
 beneath the cover took her new, 
 wide-brimmed, Leghorn hat. It 
 was a novelty, and a deal of moral 
 courage had gone to the purchase 
 of that hat. With some misgivings 
 she placed the candle convenient 
 to the looking-glass, and tried it on, 
 adjusting it with a hand raised to 
 either side of her head. It suited 
 her to admiration, and she sighed 
 like some one startled by a stroke 
 of genius. Then, as she moved her 
 head attempting new effects, the
 
 76 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 brim knocked down the candle, for 
 it takes time to become familiarised 
 to a novelty a truth which, know- 
 ing the idiosyncrasy of the Marston 
 mind, she had considered when she 
 bought the hat. 
 
 " Bother the silly candle. Stupid 
 thing ! " 
 
 Then she laughed. It would be 
 difficult for a man to kiss her under 
 that projecting brim. She would 
 not go to-morrow. Certainly not. 
 But some day she would wear it a 
 little forward, and put down her 
 head by the little stile over-right 
 the pit.
 
 VI. 
 
 CAMEL FOLK. 
 
 i-EWS did not travel fast 
 in those days, but then 
 it kept sweet so much the 
 longer. Why, the plain- 
 est story, without the 
 faintest suggestion of salt 
 in it, lasted for years as fresh as 
 butter. People brought it out 
 on holidays, turned it inside-out, 
 patched it, and at last left it, like 
 an old coat, to the succeeding gene- 
 ration. It improved by wear ; and, 
 as it got thread-bare, grew valuable 
 by tender association ; for an an- 
 cestral story, even if it had no point, 
 conferred dignity, like a piece of 
 land received by inheritance. You 
 could walk leisurely down to your 
 garden-hatch, when the whole parish
 
 78 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 scented of lilac, and boys had been 
 knocking golden-chains off your 
 laburnum into the dusty road until 
 your flower-plot was covered with 
 stones so big as hen-eggs ; and you 
 could call over a box-hedge to your 
 neighbour standing on a three- 
 legged stool on a kitchen chair, 
 clipping back his yew-tree, that 
 " This throwing o' stones ought to 
 be put down. Why, I once heard 
 grandfather tell, that when he were 
 a chile in petticoats, young John 
 Toop het he upon the head wi' a 
 stone, and knocked un down all of 
 a crump wi' his little lags under un ; 
 and Mrs. Toop, looking over that 
 very hedge, gived herself such a 
 turn to see the blood, that that was 
 how 'twas wold Isaac Toop walked 
 bow-legged to the day of his death." 
 
 Then your neighbour would re- 
 spond, " Dear ! dear ! " and go on 
 trimming his yew-tree into a gloomy 
 likeness to a peacock with a spread 
 tail. 
 
 But there was nothing nauseating 
 about news in those days. It could 
 not be flashed upon you then ; it 
 had to travel respectably, and be 
 delivered " by word o' mouth."
 
 DAUGHTER. 79 
 
 George Biddlecombe did not for- 
 get his message ; but the news that 
 Mrs. Toop was expected was bruited 
 about Camel full a fortnight before 
 she arrived. Relatives of Uncle 
 Granger then pushed forward their 
 work so as to go up u an' zee the wold 
 soul," for it was only thoughtful to 
 inquire about the weak huckles, and 
 politic to be attentive to a body who 
 might put in a word one of these 
 days. Besides, news was scarce, and 
 something might have happened at 
 Rimpton. So many people there- 
 fore dropped in to Cousin Toop's, 
 that Mrs. Toop found herself the 
 centre of quite a social circle. 
 
 " I don't tell you," she said, nod- 
 ding her head to give emphasis to 
 the narration, " but what Mr. Gran- 
 ger has been better, and he has 
 been worse ; but of course now wi' 
 nimbler hands to give attention, 
 and younger feet to run, we must 
 expect wonders. For one night 
 Ruth Upcott and her box came like 
 one out o' the clouds with scarcely 
 so much as a wink o' warning. 
 Though for that I can't say ; for 
 perhaps wi' others it mid be diffe- 
 rent ; for young George Biddlecombe
 
 8o GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 was waiting, and perhaps expected, 
 for the way that couple behaved, 
 as I saw wi' my own eyes, chancing 
 unbeknown to glance through win- 
 dow, was sickening, and their very 
 shadows must ha' shamed the very 
 walls, for that man squeezed an' 
 hugged that maid as if he'd get at 
 the very heart o' her. She has one 
 o' these new Leghorn hats, I see, for 
 Zundays." 
 
 "I can't zee what there is in a 
 Leghorn hat." 
 
 " Very little sense, you mid be 
 sure." 
 
 "Well, the Upcotts was always 
 undercreeping. Wi' all their pride 
 they'd do any mortal thing, I do 
 believe." 
 
 "An' only flesh an' blood like 
 anybeddy else." 
 
 " An' forty thousand Leghorn 
 hats can't alter that." 
 
 " Nor hoods lined white satin." 
 
 " But how'd they take George 
 Biddlecombe ? " 
 
 "She'd be doing well for her- 
 self." 
 
 "Well, there! If we be all 
 allotted vor life, an' do keep our 
 eyesight, we shall zee mwore."
 
 DAUGHTER. 8 1 
 
 Words expressing so much piety 
 sounded prophetic. But Camel 
 people do not calmly await events. 
 Theirs is the loftier faculty which 
 creates circumstances. On calm 
 spring evenings they chatted over 
 hedges of closely-clipped box, or 
 pinched sweet-briar leaves by garden 
 gates, and shouted conversation 
 across the road. And Simon Sly, 
 of Adber, told his story to the 
 country-side. And Ebenezer Up- 
 cott, in his egotism, proclaimed to 
 the whole county that, having been 
 made an April fool, he had given 
 George Biddlecombe a thrashing, 
 and Ruth was his witness. Putting 
 this and that together, a capital 
 history was compiled, characterised 
 by greater truth and rotundity than 
 a modern newspaper report. 
 
 Then in a fragmentary way 
 stories came round to old Biddle- 
 combe. He never joined the group 
 of gossips ; and few of them had the 
 hardihood to face the stinging whip 
 of his tongue. They had writhed 
 under it too often, but now there 
 seemed an opportunity of retaliation. 
 It was noticed that George was 
 absent of an evening, and everybody 
 6
 
 82 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 knew where he went, and wondered 
 whether his father also knew. But 
 the genius of Mrs. Toop first sug- 
 gested that " somebody really must 
 call on old Biddlecombe to con- 
 gratulate him to be sure." No- 
 body dared. At last a middle-aged, 
 yellow-headed Toop, with blue eyes 
 and a flat face, was urged into it by 
 the force of public opinion. In 
 despair, he borrowed a flour-bag, 
 and went to buy two pennyworth 
 of bran for that purpose. 
 
 The miller was leaning over the 
 half-door pouring the bran into the 
 bag from a peck-measure when 
 the remark was made 
 
 " Glad to hear George have caught 
 a mind to Miss Upcott, miller." 
 
 Biddlecombe's bushy eyebrows 
 scowled until they touched each 
 other, and he cast on the patient 
 Toop a glance so keen that it 
 searched the depths of those trans- 
 parent, hesitating eyes. 
 
 " Fools ! " 
 
 It was this power of rapid infer- 
 ence which startled folk ; for any 
 other man in Camel would have 
 said, " You fool." 
 
 Toop rubbed his forehead with
 
 DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 the back of his hand, and stood 
 waiting for his bran like a patient 
 ass. 
 
 It was too much for Biddlecombe. 
 Beside himself with scorn and indig- 
 nation, he threw the peck-measure 
 at the man's head. 
 
 Now, in considering this outrage 
 it is only fair to remember that the 
 peck-measure did not injure Toop's 
 head. There was a solidity about 
 that head against which the peck- 
 measure became a complete wreck. 
 When urged by public opinion to 
 seek a remedy in law, Toop was 
 as stubborn as a mule. He avowed 
 repeatedly that the peck-measure 
 " never so much as brought up a 
 bump." Still, a delicate point arose 
 under the lilac bushes, as to whether 
 it might not be at any rate a tech- 
 nical assault to break your peck- 
 measure on another man's head. 
 But nothing came of it but this : 
 that Toop, having broken the ice, 
 the parish no longer hesitated to take 
 liberties with Miller Biddlecombe. 
 
 Thus he became the victim of 
 constant annoyances ; and he took 
 to shutting his mill of an evening 
 early, and sitting within out of sight,
 
 84 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 or on the black hatches behind the 
 mfll out of hearing. 
 
 Then, if any knocked at the door 
 he might knock. 
 
 " Fools ! 
 
 That was the constant cry of his 
 loneliness the attitude of his heart 
 towards humanity. For the first 
 time in his life he absented himself 
 from the parish church, not from 
 intelligent disagreement with doc- 
 trine a reason rarer in those days 
 but because it angered him to 
 see the able-bodied, heavy-minded 
 herd. And in his solitude strange 
 thoughts came into his mind 
 visions as clear as madness. He 
 could fancy his last persecutor 
 crushed beneath the heavy, moaning 
 mill-wheel. And once, peering into 
 the pond, he saw Toop's unwieldy 
 body entangled in the weeds. 
 
 One evening he was walking 
 around his garden, and stopped to 
 admire the rapid growth of a row 
 of green peas. The mill was silent, 
 the door shut. The miller scowled 
 as John Sprackman drove his wag- 
 gon into the yard. It was a maxim 
 with him that good customers come 
 betimes.
 
 DAUGHTER. 85 
 
 " Too late. Ha ! ha ! Too late," 
 he cried, almost gleefully. 
 
 " I be late," said John, raising his 
 hat to scratch his head thoughtfully ; 
 " I be late. I can't deny it. I 
 can't, an' I wunt vor noo man 
 liven. But we've ha' had very bad 
 luck." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Luck's first cousin 
 to management. Good or bad, they 
 do show kin. They do feature each 
 other." 
 
 " Ah ! " reflected John. " There's 
 that beyond management. What 
 can 'ee do if you be overlooked ? 
 Why, up to Cadbury there were 
 two cows an' a dunkey died in one 
 day. They thought 'twere yew- 
 leaf. Not that, Mr. Biddlecombe, 
 not that. The cows mid ; but the 
 wold dunkey werden such a vool as 
 to eat yew-leaf. They were witched 
 right enough. And now there were 
 two cows died o' milk fever last 
 week, an' to-day measter's bay mare 
 gie'd herself a sheake, an' urnd back 
 two steps mebbe, an' vailed down 
 wi' her lags all astrout. She'll 
 never be noo good. Why, she've a 
 broke off both shafts an' het herself 
 all to vlitters. There, 'tis enough
 
 86 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 to ruin any man if do goo on. And 
 Mr. Upcott, he do get in a fine tare, 
 I tell 'ee." 
 
 The miller went indoors, and 
 presently returned bringing a cup 
 of cider, which he handed to John 
 without the formality of asking him 
 to drink. 
 
 " Come from -" 
 
 Pointing his thumb over his 
 shoulder, John mysteriously indi- 
 cated the home of good cider. 
 
 Miller Biddlecombe nodded. 
 
 " Ah ! 
 
 "Well! Tis my rule not to 
 work all hours. You be late, but I 
 sha'n't break my rule. A rule 
 a broke is like a vence wi' a 
 shard. But here's the key. Goo 
 yourself. You'll zee your zacks 
 aneast the door." 
 
 Whilst John staggered under the 
 last sack, and then stood puffing and 
 patting his head with a red hand- 
 kerchief, the miller replenished the 
 cup. 
 
 " Here 's luck," said John. 
 
 " So Ebenezer Upcott do get in 
 a tantrum ? " 
 
 John shook his head slowly in 
 superlative affirmation.
 
 DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 " He do zo." 
 
 " And talk loud ? " 
 
 " Why, he do git that begrumpled, 
 an' down-arg, an' ballyrag, an' holler 
 hiszelf into zitch a tare, you'd think 
 the clouds must vail. Why, he 
 come to blows wi' your Garge. Ah ! 
 you do know he did." 
 
 "Eh? What's that? Come to 
 blows wi' George. Ha ! ha ! That 
 'ud be a fine sight. Why, George 
 could pitch un over hedge, big as he 
 is. He'd be nothing afore George." 
 
 " But your Garge forgie'd un by 
 all accounts. Ah ! Mr. Biddle- 
 come, 'twere the thought o' the 
 maid, sir the thought o' the maid. 
 Good-night, Mr. Biddlecombe, sir. 
 Good-night, and much obliged." 
 
 The waggon rumbled out of the 
 yard, and the miller went slowly 
 into his house. Taking the book 
 from the dresser shelf, he glanced 
 at Ebenezer's account. Since the 
 change to Marston it had grown 
 considerably. 
 
 " Goo on, Gentleman Upcott," he 
 laughed to himself, " goo on. If 
 do cost me a hunderd pound, I'll 
 break your back and cripple 'ee so 
 as you shall never hold up your
 
 88 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 
 
 head a sound man again. You 
 shall be any man's servant, and 
 starve because you can't get work 
 for hire. Mid I live to zee 'ee 
 break stones on the road. Mid I 
 live to zee 'ee die in a ditch." 
 
 Then drawing Ebenezer's pro- 
 missory note from his pocket, he 
 read it carefully, and was glad, 
 because to-morrow was the first of 
 May.
 
 VII. 
 
 GARY FAIR. 
 
 HE first of May. Bright 
 with sunshine, sweet with 
 cowslips, and musical with 
 humming insect life. 
 Everybody was going to 
 Gary Fair. John Sprack- 
 man wore a clean smock and a 
 bunch of lilac in his billy-cock hat. 
 The sun gilded the yellow waggon, 
 and peeped through a barricade of 
 hurdles at the red backs of a load of 
 calves " zo tidy a lot o' calves " as 
 John could " ever call to mind." 
 
 Gentleman Upcott, in brocaded 
 waistcoat and a blue coat with brass 
 buttons, hurried out of the door. 
 A huge seal glittered from his fob ; 
 his top boots looked more jaunty 
 than usual. 
 
 "I'm not proud. Oh, no. I say,
 
 90 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 I'm not proud. Now the mare's 
 dead, I'll ride along in the waggon. 
 I say, I'll ride along with John 
 Sprackman. Come, John, come. 
 Don't stay about. Come along. I 
 say, come along." 
 
 And he mounted the shaft and 
 adjusted his back against the hurdles. 
 Truly there is no pride like enforced 
 humility. So erect his head, as they 
 passed Camel Mill, Miller Biddle- 
 combe half suspected him of having 
 the money in his pocket. 
 
 A quarter of a mile from Gary he 
 alighted. 
 
 u Not that I mind being seen in a 
 waggon. Not I. Not a straw. I 
 say, not one straw. But I want to 
 stretch my legs. I say, after being 
 penned up, I want to stretch my 
 legs." 
 
 So he entered the fair on foot, 
 and was soon elbowing his way 
 amongst the crowd. Uncle Granger 
 was there in his low pony trap, with 
 Ruth in her Leghorn hat ; and from 
 a distance George watched without 
 venturing to accost them. He had 
 met her more than once by the 
 little stile over-right the pit, and 
 love made him both bold and shy.
 
 DAUGHTER. 9 I 
 
 He exaggerated the public interest 
 taken in Ebenezer's assault, and his 
 own patience in the quarrel ; and 
 he was determined to prove his 
 manhood and wipe out the unre- 
 quited blow that day. So he 
 hovered about, waiting for the 
 sports to begin. Love and a sense 
 of shame were making his heart 
 fierce. 
 
 "Hullo, Uncle Granger. How's 
 Uncle Granger? I say, how's 
 Uncle Granger ? Ruth ! " 
 
 Ebenezer nodded this brief recog- 
 nition to his daughter, placed his 
 hands in his breeches pockets, and 
 puffing out his cheeks to express 
 the warmth of walking, looked larger 
 than ever. 
 
 " I I came along in the waggon. 
 I I say, I rode on with the calves. 
 I've had bad luck. Very bad luck. 
 Two cows died in a fortnight, and 
 last week my bay mare, as fine a 
 mare as ever stepped, fell down and 
 knocked herself to pieces. I say, 
 cut herself to pieces. Now, that's 
 bad luck. Very bad luck for any 
 man." 
 
 And raising his voice, he looked 
 around as if bad luck, when really
 
 92 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 superlatively bad, were a matter to 
 boast of. 
 
 " Dear, dear," said Uncle Granger, 
 and Ruth felt sad about the 
 mare. 
 
 u But I sha'n't be in a hurry to 
 buy. I say, it's a great mistake to 
 be in a hurry. I shall wait to see 
 what I want. In fact, I've got no 
 business here to-day, but a score of 
 calves half sold before I came. It's 
 wise to look around, because you 
 never know what you may see." 
 
 An array of travelling shows and 
 tradesmen's stalls lined the street. 
 Drums were beaten, trumpets blared, 
 and Ebenezer, looking round, caught 
 sight of a sudden rush, and then 
 a dozen hats thrown into the 
 air. 
 
 " They're on for single-stick. I 
 say, they're on for single-stick," he 
 cried, and the crowd hurried towards 
 a stage plentifully bestrewn with 
 billy-cock hats. 
 
 The 'elite of Gary was ranged on 
 a bench behind the stage at a cost 
 of threepence each. The crowd 
 loudly disputed concerning priority, 
 but it was finally decided that a hat 
 thrown by John Sprackman had
 
 DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 fallen first upon the stage. John 
 was elated with success. 
 
 "You zee 'tes young Garge 
 Biddlecombe's hat right enough. 
 That's whose hat 'tes, right enough. 
 'Tidden my hat. I do kip my hat 
 'pon my yead. I don't want to goo 
 up there to have my crown cracked 
 wi' a groun' ash stick. No, no. 
 He wer' zo vur back I put his hat 
 on vor un. But 'tidden my hat. 
 'Tis young Garge Biddlecombe's 
 hat, sure enough. But if Zammy 
 Tucker o' Long-Load should hct 
 young Garge athirt the buttock, 
 'twunt do for he to stop to rub the 
 pleace. But that's whose hat 'tes, 
 right enough." 
 
 Ebenezer pushed close to the 
 platform. As George sprang up 
 the steps, Uncle Granger, forgetful 
 of weak huckles, stood up in the 
 little low trap. Ruth's face flushed, 
 and she felt angry with George for 
 playing. Not that it mattered to 
 her ; a few kisses were not so com- 
 promising in those days. Yet as he 
 stood there with the May sunlight 
 on his brown hair, she felt keenly 
 anxious that he might not be beaten. 
 Everybody was prejudiced in favour
 
 94 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 of one combatant or the other, and 
 she hated Samuel Tucker of Long- 
 Load. 
 
 The players stood up before each 
 other, shook hands, and said, " God 
 save our eyesight." 
 
 For some time the play was so 
 wary that neither obtained advan- 
 tage, but presently, after some 
 stamping of feet and clattering of 
 sticks, George received a blow on 
 the forehead. 
 
 " Blood ! blood ! No blood 1 " 
 shouted the spectators, and even 
 Uncle Granger, too far off to see, 
 shouted " No blood " with the true 
 party spirit which is superior to 
 truth. 
 
 The umpire deliberately put on 
 his spectacles and stared at the 
 bruise. It was a bump as big as a 
 stubbard apple. The local surgeon 
 minutely examined it. There was 
 certainly a redness and a moisture 
 suggestive of blood, but a trans- 
 parency about the moisture which 
 went far to relegate it to the cate- 
 gory of a "bead o' pink zweat." 
 The surgeon denied the existence 
 of any such fluid, and argument 
 was becoming hot enough to even-
 
 DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 tuate in blood when Ebenezer 
 stepped upon the stage. 
 
 " No blood. I maintain, no 
 blood." He shook his head dog 
 matically refusing to hear expostu- 
 lation ; whilst the umpire with 
 judicial gravity produced from his 
 pocket a sheet of white blotting- 
 paper. 
 
 The cries ceased as the crowd 
 breathlessly watched its application 
 to the stubbard apple. The umpire 
 patted the surface delicately as if he 
 feared the skin beneath would pop, 
 but the closest scrutiny revealed the 
 paper as innocent as when fresh- 
 pressed. 
 
 " No blood." 
 
 "I affirmed no blood," cried 
 Ebenezer, loudly. 
 
 But as he descended from the plat- 
 form some one plucked his sleeve, 
 and looking round he saw Miller 
 Biddlecombe. In his excitement he 
 thought only of the dispute. 
 
 " No blood. I said, no blood. 
 It's absurd. I had an altercation 
 with George myself the other day, 
 but that makes no difference. I say, 
 that makes no difference to me, 
 and I maintained ' no blood.' "
 
 g6 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 " I knew you 'oodn't forget the 
 first o' May, Mr. Upcott, zur. I 
 zed, I shall look vor Mr. Upcott at 
 Gary Vair. Ha ! ha ! I knew you'd 
 be here to pay my little debt. But 
 never count money in a crowd. 
 That's my maxim, Mr. Upcott. Zo 
 let's vind some quiet place." 
 
 " Yes. I had a word with George, 
 but I was sorry for it. I say, I was 
 sorry for it." Pleased with this 
 magnanimous admission Ebenezer 
 did not notice the nervous quivering 
 of the miller's lip. 
 
 " I brought on the bit o' paper in 
 my pocket." 
 
 " Oh ! I didn't forget, Miller 
 Biddlecombe. I didn't forget. I 
 say, I was looking about for you. 
 Well, Neighbour Biddlecombe, we 
 know each other after these years I 
 should think. Perhaps you've heard 
 of my bad luck. I was going to ask 
 you to let this matter stand a day 
 or two. I'll attend to it shortly. 
 I say, very shortly. I'll look in on 
 you ; that '11 be the way. I say, 
 that'll be the best way." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! The best way is to 
 keep your day, Mr. Upcott, zur. 
 An' you do remember I do keep my
 
 DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 rule. I do only know one cure for 
 a borrowed debt, an' that only good, 
 done in time. Perhaps I mid zend 
 'ee the copy of a writ. It do gie 
 vigour to a weak back, zo they do 
 zay, the copy of a writ." 
 
 " Good. Very good. Vigour to 
 a weak back. I say, very good. 
 Well done, Miller Biddlecombe, one 
 of the best things I've heard for a 
 long time." 
 
 "Then hold it fast in mind, 
 Ebenezer Upcott. T'ull be well 
 vor 'ee, I tell 'ee ; I don't say I shall, 
 but I can remember that," and the 
 old man turned away with a slight 
 gesture of contempt. 
 
 Ebenezer walked back into the fair 
 almost losing sight of the threat in 
 the miller's habitual irony. " Vigour 
 to a weak back. Very good I say, 
 very good," he kept repeating. 
 
 He would have told the story to 
 Uncle Granger, but did not wish to 
 disclose the secret of the debt. Yet 
 the copy of a writ is not a pleasing 
 subject for conversation. Treated 
 however lightly it is depressing, and 
 for a few minutes the sense of im- 
 pecuniosity weighed heavily on Up- 
 cott. He did not know whence to 
 7
 
 98 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S 
 
 obtain the money ; and other sums 
 were owed, and creditors becoming 
 restless. Well, if pressed he must 
 try to borrow elsewhere. Then he 
 began to congratulate himself on his 
 adroit management of the miller ; 
 and then loud shouts recalled his 
 attention, and he hurried back to 
 learn that young George Biddle- 
 combe had cracked the crown " o' 
 Zammy Tucker o' Long-Load." 
 Under the circumstances Ebenezer 
 rode home with a neighbour, fully 
 justified in believing that he had 
 enjoyed a most successful day. 
 
 " Bless my heart ! " he cried, at 
 Marston Corner. " I've clean forgot 
 the calves. Where's John Sprack- 
 man ? I say, where' s John Sprack- 
 man? It's his fault. Bless my 
 heart alive. Well, I suppose it isn't 
 much odds." 
 
 Now although deficient in demon- 
 stration Uncle Granger was at heart 
 an enthusiastic sportsman. He 
 loved a broken head on somebody 
 else's shoulders and respected the 
 man who broke it. Moreover the 
 triumph of a near neighbour over an 
 inhabitant of a distant and there- 
 fore inferior parish pleased him
 
 DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 greatly. He sang George's praises 
 and glanced slyly at Ruth. Did he 
 think there was something between 
 her and George Biddlecombe? It 
 was impossible to tell. But if any- 
 thing should come of it though 
 that was absurd, for it was only fun 
 with no harm in it but if anything 
 should, why, Uncle Granger's ap- 
 proval would weigh heavily with 
 her father. So with a toss of the head 
 she condemned cudgel-playing and 
 only wondered how people could be 
 so foolish. 
 
 Then George came sauntering up, 
 his hands in his pockets, his face 
 wearing the sheepish look which so 
 often distinguishes greatness. 
 
 Uncle Granger's countenance was 
 far more joyous as he cried, "Well 
 done, George. Well done." Then 
 he leaned forward in the little low 
 cart and enthusiastically shook the 
 young man by the hand. " Come 
 over this evening. Come over, I 
 say." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Granger. I'll 
 walk across. Good-bye for the 
 present." 
 
 Ruth's eyes met his. She had 
 worn the Leghorn hat more than
 
 100 GENTLEMAN UPCOTTY 
 
 once at the little stile over-right the 
 pit and she knew it was an invita- 
 tion. 
 
 During the silent homeward drive 
 she sat weighing the propriety of 
 cowslip-picking that evening in little 
 three-acres over the orchard hedge. 
 She liked a meeting to be quite 
 accidental ; and of course it was not 
 absolutely certain that he would 
 come that way. 
 
 Morn, noon, and night, since 
 Lady-day she had been thinking of 
 George Biddlecombe. She liked 
 him ; enjoyed a sense of power in 
 worrying him ; but as for being 
 seriously in love and marrying that 
 was quite another matter. She 
 reasoned with herself that she did 
 not care about getting married at all. 
 None of the others were married. 
 It was the loftiest boast of the Up- 
 cotts that they kept themselves to 
 themselves. But that was hardly 
 an argument against matrimony, 
 since neither of the others had had 
 a romance except Sempronia, who 
 once slapped the head of a man 
 from Bristol, in patent boots, for 
 kissing her under the mistletoe at 
 an evening party. But then Sempy
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 was severe and puritanical ; and 
 even she admitted on the following 
 morning that she wouldn't have 
 minded so much if it had meant 
 anything. 
 
 "Hark to the gookoo,"said Uncle 
 Granger. u Hop out an' open the 
 gate, there's a good maid." 
 
 Long shadows from the elm trees 
 in the hedgerows were stretching 
 across the meadows when George 
 came in sight that evening. He had 
 dressed with care. A Sunday coat 
 denoted the serious nature of his 
 errand ; a flower of considerable 
 dimensions gave a holiday aspect to 
 his button-hole ; but the heart 
 beneath was sad. A certain sinking 
 of the heart often accompanies a 
 determination to speak out. 
 
 Did she love him ? Would she 
 marry him ? It was not possible 
 for everybody would be against it, 
 his father, her father and he was 
 such a plain chap and yet how he 
 loved her ! and how he would work 
 for her ! it almost seemed as if she 
 must love him. Thus his hopes and 
 fears alternated between the sun- 
 shine and the shadow.
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 She had picked a double-handful 
 of cowslips as big as a truckle cheese. 
 
 "I walked across," he said, "the 
 same as I said." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I had something to say." He 
 stopped and stared at the gold-dust 
 from the gild-cups on his boots. 
 
 She laughed like the peal of 
 Camel bells on a wedding day. 
 
 " What have you done with it ? " 
 she said almost too innocently. 
 
 He drew himself up to his full 
 height. How tall he was, how 
 straight he was ; and Lord ! how 
 solemn he looked. 
 
 " I know how it will seem my 
 telling you such a thing ; but I can't 
 help it. There are things the heart 
 must speak. Perhaps they mid be put 
 there a-purpose to be spoken. If you 
 were like some perhaps it wouldn't 
 matter, but I know you've been 
 brought up wi' everything different 
 to most, and although it's little I've 
 got, perhaps the day'd come when 
 I should find it had been wrong to 
 hold silence. I should never get it 
 out o' my heart. Never. I've loved 
 'ee a long time long before the day 
 you went to Marston. And I should
 
 DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 never stop loving of 'ee, not even if 
 I had to starve my heart for the 
 want of looking on your face. And 
 sometimes I've thought you did care 
 a little ; and then again 't were 
 only gaiety o' heart and playward- 
 ness after all. And now I'm bound 
 to ask for a Yes or a No, or whether 
 if I could do well and come wi' a 
 chance of everything you could want, 
 whether your heart 'ud turn from me 
 if it were all left to that. I shouldn't 
 ask 'ee to come to poverty nor hard 
 work. But if money could do it, I'd 
 get it I'd get it if 't were on the 
 other side o' the earth." 
 
 He stopped but she did not speak. 
 
 "And if 't were a No I should go 
 away. I couldn't bear the place 
 after that. I couldn't look and 
 net long and I couldn't keep from 
 looking. I should go right away." 
 
 " I shouldn't trouble to go away," 
 was all she said. 
 
 Love is a fool, a blind idiot devoid 
 of understanding, and with no more 
 wit than a wagtail. His only virtue 
 and salvation is that he cannot keep 
 from looking. He took it for a No. 
 And yet there is a sort of humour 
 about the little rascal that you can't
 
 104 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 help liking him too, for when 
 George looked for the last time 
 with something like a tear in his 
 eye there was something uncom- 
 monly like laughter in Ruth's. 
 
 " You would ? " 
 
 And then well, I will only add 
 this, that if you desire a never - 
 failing specific do not rely too im- 
 plicitly on a Leghorn hat. 
 
 Everything was changed. The 
 future became as golden as the 
 meadow with its gold-cups and 
 cowslips and clumps of primroses 
 on the orchard bank. They could 
 talk at a hand-gallop now and take 
 all their obstacles flying. 
 
 "We'll keep it to ourselves, 
 Ruth," said George. 
 
 " And just as well," she agreed, 
 with a significant nod of the 
 head. 
 
 " For everybody'll be against it 
 at first. Your father and mine. 
 And I've got nothing o' my own. 
 But if I could get round father to 
 put me in a tidy little farm ; what 
 would 'ee want, Ruth ? Shall I 
 have to wait to build a king's 
 palace, or what ? " 
 
 The wood-quests were cooing in
 
 DAUGHTER. 105 
 
 the elms, and a home-screech came 
 flying out of the apple-tree. 
 
 She only laughed again. " I said 
 to Uncle Granger that I'd come for 
 keep and clothes, but you see he 
 was a relative." 
 
 " And dear at that." 
 
 They started, for the voice seemed 
 to come out of the clouds. But 
 there on the rail above them on the 
 orchard bank was Uncle Granger, 
 in a white smock, puffing a long 
 clay pipe. He had waddled out to 
 inspect the apple-blooth and hear 
 the birds sing. 
 
 "She is that," retorted young 
 George, with wit as nimble as the 
 cudgel that cracked the crown of 
 Zammy Tucker o' Long-Load. 
 
 Uncle Granger laughed and shook 
 his head. 
 
 " 'T'll be a good cider year, please 
 God," he said, and waddled home 
 without another word. 
 
 Now what on earth did Uncle 
 Granger think ?
 
 VIII. 
 
 GEORGE DEPARTS. 
 
 | HE three black hatches 
 which bay back the mill- 
 pool are nearly hidden 
 from the high-road. There 
 is no bridge at that place, 
 although when the water 
 is not running a man can easily 
 walk across the flat, slanting stones 
 which form the bed of the weir. 
 A low wall, roughly built, protects 
 the edge of the pond, and it was on 
 this that Miller Biddlecombe used 
 to sit and brood upon his wrongs. 
 
 He had said nothing to George 
 about Ruth Upcott since the day 
 that Ebenezer ridded house. It 
 was not safe to do so (his quick 
 perception had taught him that), 
 and so he waited, warily watching 
 
 106
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 events. He knew that George had 
 spoken, as well as if he had heard 
 the words. George spoke on the 
 night of the cudgel-playing. And 
 for a fortnight the miller sat there 
 every evening until dark talking to 
 himself about it. 
 
 It was a golden sunset, beautiful 
 and calm. Midges were hanging in 
 thousands over the surface of the 
 still water, sometimes broken into 
 waves by a crossing moor-hen or 
 into ripples by an occasional trout. 
 Every leaf on the willow-trees was 
 reflected as clearly as in a mirror. 
 So were the blood-red wallflowers 
 growing from the chinks between 
 the stones. From the opposite bank 
 on the strip of mud between the 
 water and the lush grasses a rat 
 peered at the miller ; but the miller 
 was as still as a monument, and the 
 rat did not move. 
 
 He had not spoken to George. 
 With habitual secretiveness he kept 
 his deeper thoughts to himself and 
 brooded over them a miser of 
 malice hoarding threats within his 
 soul. 
 
 But something in the quietude 
 of that evening, the fragrance of
 
 108 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 the wallflowers or the low murmur 
 of the gnats, seemed to lead him 
 back to long ago, when, the wheel 
 having ceased for the day, he sat 
 there with the woman who loved 
 loved his very crookedness itself 
 and in defiance of friends had dared 
 to marry him. He remembered the 
 eagerness, the burning passion of 
 that unexpected love, and the exul- 
 tant happiness of their short married 
 life. Then she was suddenly snatched 
 from him. The neighbours bemoaned 
 a motherless babe ; but he shed no 
 tears. Their kindness brought no 
 comfort, and his heart hardened 
 against their futile condolences. 
 What did they mean by their talk 
 of his " great loss " ? these people 
 who had opposed his marriage, and 
 blamed her living to beweep her 
 dead. Then they called him cripple ; 
 and now they cried for him the fools 
 whose words were a mere mockery. 
 And he stood by the open grave 
 beside the churchyard yew, when 
 the sky was of lead, and the breath 
 of winter was driving the last dead 
 leaves from the tall poplar trees. 
 The pitiless hail half drowned the 
 hurried muttering of the parson's
 
 DAUGHTER. I 09 
 
 mummery, but he heard the crum- 
 bled earth rattle on the coffin-lid 
 and looked and knew the inherent 
 injustice of all things ; and creeping 
 heavily beneath his load of crape to 
 his deserted home, he shut the door 
 in the faces of the bearers, for the 
 keen intelligence gleaming through 
 his distorted frame had seen that Life 
 has nothing but folly and knavery. 
 The most of men were able-bodied 
 fools, and God had robbed him. 
 
 From that day no man by in- 
 vitation had ever taken bit or sup 
 at the mill. The miller went silently 
 about his daily work and a neighbour 
 brought up the scarcely-noticed child 
 by hand. But when little George 
 could run and used to come peeping 
 in at the mill-door, a sense of father- 
 hood quickened in Biddlecombe's 
 heart. His pride awakened, and with 
 it a desire for money. He began to 
 measure his gratitude to his dead wife 
 by the wealth he could amass for her 
 child. And how riches had grown 
 to be sure ! The mill was his, the 
 fields were his, and also the cottages 
 across the lane. All that George 
 might look any man in the face and 
 hold up his head in the parish.
 
 110 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 And were these to be thrown away 
 in folly and finery by an Upcott 
 girl without a penny to her name ? 
 There was never an Upcott could 
 keep things together. Folly and 
 vanity ran in the blood. Why, 
 Ebenezer, who began with so much 
 money in hand, had come rolling 
 down the hill like mad, and one 
 turn more would bring him to the 
 bottom. As he thought of this man's 
 futility, an unutterable wrath, an 
 instinctive hatred surged within his 
 heart. It would delight him to com- 
 plete the ruin of Ebenezer Upcott. 
 
 Then George came sauntering 
 round a bend of the brook, a fishing- 
 rod in his hand. He stopped on the 
 opposite bank and dapped with a 
 window-fly beneath the willow-tree. 
 The trout came at once. There was 
 a splash, and the rat dived. The old 
 man uttered no note of triumph, no 
 wonted laugh of exultation over the 
 victim, but glared angrily at George. 
 George was a fool like all the rest- 
 That such active manhood should 
 suffer a blow argued a crippled spirit, 
 and for once he felt ashamed of his 
 son. 
 
 " Ha ! Zo you let Gentleman
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Upcott dust your jacket. He 
 warmed your back by all accounts. 
 A pretty thing for a man o' your 
 age. But I suppose you got the 
 spirit o' a mouse, or the heart o' a 
 maid. Fit to catch a little flickeren 
 vish that can't do 'ee noo harm 
 'ithout his bone should stick in 
 your droat an' choke 'ee." 
 
 " You don't think I were a-feard, 
 do 'ee ? " scornfully retorted George. 
 " Think you wer' a-veard. I 
 think you were a vool. Why 
 where's your pride ? To run a'ter 
 a girl who 'ouldn't look at 'ee if she 
 had zo much as zixpence. As God's 
 in Heaven, if I thought she'd have 
 thee, she should have thee poor 
 enough. Why she'd scorn to be zeed 
 in the same ten-acre vield wi' 'ee. 
 Money'll slip away where she do 
 manage, an' then she'll look round 
 to wonder where 'tis gone. Why half 
 the gaping volk in Camel, wi' their 
 mouths open to swallow each other's 
 lies, be tellen what a vool thou bist." 
 " An' let 'em tell." 
 " Let 'em tell ? Ha ! ha ! Let 
 'em tell. They shall tell that 
 't was n't to my mind. Let 'em tell 
 that I cut 'ee off wi' a shilling.
 
 112 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 Let 'em tell that I turned 'ee out 
 o' doors, an' then let 'em tell how 
 she 'ouldn't look at 'ee. Why she'd 
 think it a compliment to take 'ee 
 vvi' plenty, an' scorn 'ee wi' nothen' 
 to your name." 
 
 "An' if she did, 't wouldn't so 
 much matter that I'd ha' got none." 
 
 The old man rose, glared angrily 
 upon his son, and raised his stick 
 with a movement of impatient 
 menace. To him George was still 
 a boy. No boundary divides the 
 dependency of youth from the free 
 state of manhood, and such words 
 seemed almost childish. For a 
 moment he was speechless with 
 wrath. Then his fury burst out 
 like a torrent. 
 
 " 'T wouldn't matter, did 'ee zay ? 
 'T wouldn't matter that I've worked 
 an' strove early an' late, that you 
 mid vind life easy, an' look any 
 man in the face. Can I carry the 
 gold or the ground wi' me when 
 I do goo, that I should zet my heart 
 on it day an' night? Did I ever 
 look at things askew to think that 
 I, a cripple, could find joy in that 
 I couldn't use ? I wer' a vool vor 
 all my pains, not to know that
 
 DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 there'd be no thanks, an' that zome 
 perty piece o' vanity 'ud turn your 
 head, an' lead 'ee into waste, until 
 the pinch o' want did make 'ee 
 wish that I wer' dead. 'T wouldn't 
 matter ? It 'ud matter this much, 
 that not a penny piece shall you 
 have to buy your own ruin. I'll 
 leave it zo by will, that you shall 
 never handle your own, an' lose 
 every varden if you do marry the 
 hussy. Her father's a beggar. I 
 won't be kin to a beggar." 
 
 " How's he a beggar ? He paid 
 what he owed you. He never came 
 a-beggen' here that I heard o'." 
 
 "An' if he came starven' I'd shut 
 my door upon un. A fool wi' a 
 proud temper. I shall live to zee 
 un in ruin. He 's under water now. 
 I tell 'ee, he's under water, a zinken' 
 man, an' if he were there avore my 
 eyes I'd see un zink, an' tell un he 
 het my vlesh an' blood. You can 
 choose. You can choose to once. 
 A stroke o' the pen can let it all go 
 so easy as a crowbar can raise a 
 hatch. You can have her wi' nothen' 
 if she'll have you. Ha !^ha ! Go 
 an' zee. Go an' zee." 
 
 The miller turned away and walked
 
 114 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 towards the house, leaving George 
 moodily looking over the hatches. 
 Should he tell his father that she 
 had promised ? Or should he wait 
 for a more favourable opportunity ? 
 It seemed a meanness to hide this 
 mighty truth that she loved him 
 a sort of cowardice to hesitate to 
 proclaim it. And yet there hap- 
 pened sometimes a moment when 
 his father was quite kind. 
 
 Presently the miller looked out 
 from the front door. 
 
 " George ! " he cried, " there, 
 don't bide moonen about. Come in 
 an' have your supper." 
 
 The tone was conciliatory and 
 George obeyed. The miller had 
 drawn the cider and put out the 
 bread and cheese. They sat down 
 together by the hearth-stone, and, 
 anxious to efface his recent anger, 
 the old man became quite garrulous. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Old Tommy White 
 isn't long for this world. I zaw 
 doctor rottle past twice in one day. 
 He do want to make the most o' un 
 while he do live, zimmy-zoo. An' 
 passon bin up too. He bid there 
 full a hour a hour an' ten minutes 
 by Camel clock. An' they've ha
 
 DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 zend un up little milk puddens vor 
 vull a week. I watched 'em by. Zo 
 I do lot he won't be long vor life. 
 An' then the little close o' grass, an' 
 the bit o' plough-ground 'ill be vor 
 zale. They must zell, vor zo 'twer' 
 left. An' we'll buy it, cost what 
 mid, an' that'll make it up to dree- 
 an'-zixty acres, all to lie together 
 close an' quiet wi' not a vootpath 
 upon it. Why you mid milk a 
 score, aye, two or dree an' twenty 
 cows upon it if you be zo minded. 
 I've done well vor 'ee, George. 
 That's better than beginnen' wi' 
 plenty to end wi' none." 
 
 He stopped to laugh with a sort 
 of feverish exultation, but the allu- 
 sion kept George silent. 
 
 " What ! Be dumb then ? " 
 
 Receiving no reply, the miller lit a 
 candle and groped his way upstairs. 
 George could hear him moving in 
 the bedroom overhead. Presently 
 he returned and pitched a small 
 leathern bag of money upon the oak 
 table by which George was sitting. 
 
 " Count it," he cried. " I tell 'ee, 
 count it. Count it." 
 
 The young man hesitated ; then 
 obeyed an impatient gesture. Old
 
 Il6 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 Biddlecombe watched eagerly, as if 
 expecting to detect deficiency in the 
 amount. 
 
 " Forty-seven pound three and 
 four." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! Count it again. I 
 tell 'ee, count it again." And his 
 laugh sounded hard like the clinking 
 of the counted coins. 
 
 " That's what 'tis." 
 
 " 'Tis yours. I won't keep it 
 vrom 'ee. It come to your mother 
 by will by her mother's side. Fifty 
 pound and the oddses be the duty ; 
 and I never touched it to this day. 
 Goo an' make your way wi' it, if 
 you be zo love-struck wi' a trumpery 
 maid not wo'th her zalt " 
 
 George pushed the money from 
 him. 
 
 " I thought you'd be wiser when 
 it corned to the pinch. But 'tis 
 yours when you do want it, mind 
 'ee. 'Tis yours vor the asken. Come 
 when you will, there 't is wi'out a 
 question. But not a penny of mine, 
 mind, if you should ever take a 
 vain, stuck-up, empty-headed fool 
 What George ! Then, where be 
 gwaine ? " 
 
 His hand already on the latch,
 
 DAUGHTER. 1 17 
 
 without answering, George opened 
 the door and went out. The old 
 man carefully buttoned the money- 
 bag in his pocket, took his stick, 
 and hobbled into the yard. 
 
 " George ! George ! " 
 
 But George's figure was already 
 dim in the twilight. 
 
 Stars were peering through the 
 pale sky, and the sounds of day 
 were almost hushed. Bats fluttered 
 hither and thither, and once an owl 
 swept over the mill with its lonely 
 cry. The barking of a house dog ; 
 the shutting of a door ; then a party 
 of villagers talking, laughing, one 
 of them playing a jig on the 
 concertina, passed down the road, 
 leaving the place to solitude and 
 night. " A pack o' gigglen' vools," 
 cried the miller, as he went indoors. 
 
 But now he was absolutely alone. 
 It was almost bedtime. He knew 
 that George would not return, yet 
 he lit a candle and sat down to wait, 
 muttering complaints against his 
 son in which the words " pig- 
 headed," " nog-headed," " zour- 
 headed," constantly recurred. He 
 was hurt, and grumbled against 
 ingratitude ; wounded, and tried to
 
 1 1 8 GENTLEMAN UPCOT'l'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 heal his sore with accusation and 
 self-excuse. Then his heart hard- 
 ened, and he laughed bitterly to 
 himself in his mocking way. "Ha ! 
 ha ! He'll zoon vind what 'tis to 
 work vor his liven. To keep hours 
 to another man's clock, and turn 
 water into another man's stream. 
 Work an' hardship 'ull zoon tame a 
 proud spirit. Let un zee a vriend's 
 back where he used to stare at his 
 waistcoat. Let un zee where his 
 Upcott maid '11 pull up a trotten' 
 hoss to speak to un, when he's a 
 traipsen in the mud. He'll zoon be 
 back. Ha! ha! He'll zoon be 
 back wi' a empty belly an' a head- 
 vull o* wisdom. He'll come now 
 avore this year's gookoo do get 
 hoarse wi' callen, in time to save 
 his own hay, may-be." 
 
 A sudden thought cut short the 
 miller's soliloquy. 
 
 " 'Tis a good thing he's gone. I 
 be glad he's gone. He'd only ha' 
 been in the way." 
 
 And he drew out the promissory 
 note and gloated over the ruin of 
 Ebenezer Upcott. That was the 
 beauty of it : you could proceed at 
 once upon a promissory note.
 
 IX. 
 
 UNEXPECTED VISITS. 
 
 'HERE now. I say, 
 there now. There's a 
 pretty fellow. Can't 
 hold a sheep better 
 than that. And these 
 are let out before 
 they're half washed I say, before 
 they're a half or quarter washed." 
 
 Mr. Upcott was standing on the 
 brink of a circular sheep-wash built 
 in the brook, superintending the 
 washing of a few wethers. An 
 obstreperous animal had knocked 
 down the young chap helping the 
 shepherd. The sheep bleated, the 
 men laughed, the youth wrung out 
 his hair and rubbed his eyes, but 
 Ebenezer was not pleased. A great 
 mind is a great misfortune, and 
 Ebenezer towering above trivialities 
 became superior to mirth.
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 " There's nothing to laugh at. I 
 say, nothing whatever. It's enough 
 to make a man ill to watch the 
 stupidity of others. I'm not sur- 
 prised at the state o' the country, 
 when I see the the inefficiency of 
 people around me. No wonder the 
 country's poor and the rates high. 
 I say, no wonder when " 
 
 " Ebenezer ! Ebenezer ! " 
 
 A couple of fields away Mrs. 
 Upcott was calling and waving her 
 handkerchief. When he looked 
 round she beckoned with her hand. 
 
 " I can't come," shouted Ebe- 
 nezer. 
 
 But Mrs. Upcott persisted in 
 hurrying up to the sheep-wash. 
 
 " You're wanted, Ebenezer. 
 You're wanted in the little par- 
 lour." 
 
 The mention of that rarely used 
 apartment ought to have moved 
 Ebenezer, but did not. 
 
 " Well now, Eliza. I must say 
 this is annoying. I say, most 
 annoying. So you won't take no 
 for an answer. What is it ? I 
 demand, what is it ? Can't you 
 see how busy I am ? And see how 
 hot you've made yourself. Very
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 foolish indeed. I say, very un- 
 wise." 
 
 Glowing with curiosity and 
 pleasing excitement, Mrs. Upcott 
 panted out an explanation. 
 
 " There's a gentleman, Ebenezer. 
 A stranger, Ebenezer. He must 
 see you about something very 
 particular. He he said he'd wait. 
 I I showed him in the parlour. 
 And and I don't know why, 
 Ebenezer, but when he wouldn't 
 give his name, I thought of the 
 Upcotts of Exeter." 
 
 u Well. Then I suppose I must 
 come. Now don't you catch cold, 
 I say, don't you go catching a chill, 
 Eliza. Remember, I warn you 
 against catching a chill." And 
 affecting great annoyance, Ebenezer 
 walked home with the slow gait of 
 a man who is too important to be 
 inquisitive. 
 
 The stranger, a tall man of some- 
 what distinguished appearance, was 
 patiently waiting. He wore a long 
 frock coat, threadbare and creased. 
 One button was missing, another 
 strained the time-honoured garment 
 tightly around his waist. Both coat 
 and wearer having seen better days,
 
 122 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 and perhaps worse, were brushed 
 into an appearance of resuscitated 
 respectability. Ebenezer stared 
 doubtfully, as if groping in his 
 memory, whilst the stranger bowed 
 and stroked his moustache. 
 
 " John Bagley ? I say, John 
 Bagley." 
 
 " I am Mr. Bagley." 
 
 " I thought so. I never forget a 
 face. I say, I never forget a 
 face." 
 
 The greeting was constrained on 
 both sides. Recognition recalled 
 Bagley as a confirmed borrower. 
 The frock coat probably secreted a 
 brief in the breast pocket, one of 
 those half-fraudulent appeals to 
 wholly undeserved charity which 
 are so hard to resist. 
 
 " I'm very sorry for my errand to 
 you to-day, Mr. Upcott," and Mr. 
 Bagley's tone seemed to express 
 acute suffering, " because you re- 
 member me in better days. But a 
 man cannot starve, and none of us 
 knows what he may come to. 
 Misfortune breaks the strongest 
 man, and I hope you'll not be 
 offended " 
 
 Ebenezer's suspicion was aroused
 
 DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 as Bagley's hand softly glided into 
 the gap left by the missing button. 
 
 " It's no good. I tell you, it's no 
 good. I can't and won't do it, John 
 Bagley. I've got eight daughters 
 to provide for and I can't. Charity 
 begins at home, and I say my first 
 duty is at home. You should do 
 something. Surely there's some- 
 thing you could do to get yourself 
 a living. I'm afraid you're proud, 
 but you must bend to circumstances. 
 It's no good to show it to me. I 
 say, it's no good " 
 
 Ebenezer raised his hands in re- 
 fusal, and turned abruptly from the 
 inevitable petition. 
 
 u I fear there's a slight misunder- 
 standing," said Bagley, with hauteur. 
 "I've been entrusted with a com- 
 mission. It's an unpleasant duty, 
 this law work ; but, as you say, we 
 must bend to circumstances. I'm 
 sorry, but I must serve you with the 
 copy of a writ at the suit of John 
 Biddlecombc." 
 
 " Copy of a writ ! Copy of a 
 
 This is sharp work. I say this is 
 sharp practice." 
 
 " We bend to circumstances. We 
 no doubt obey the instructions of
 
 124 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 our client," said Bagley, speaking 
 grandly on behalf of a great profes- 
 sion. 
 
 Ebenezer paced the room, glaring 
 at the objectionable document in 
 his hand. It seemed like a grim 
 joke that he, Ebenezer Upcott, 
 should be treated in this incompre- 
 hensible manner. 
 
 " And does he expect to get the 
 money?" he cried, excitedly. "I 
 ask, did he anticipate your receiving 
 the money ? " 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Bagley, 
 grimly. 
 
 11 Because if he did, he's greatly 
 mistaken. I'll I'll cause all the 
 delay I can. I'll fight it! I say, 
 I'll contest it, just to show the 
 double-cunning rascal up. I'll put 
 in an appearance, and then I'll 
 leave the country. The country's 
 almost bankrupt as it is, and this is 
 the sort of thing to drive good men 
 out of it. I say, I'll leave the 
 country. I'll leave the country ! " 
 
 At this point Mr. Bagley, deem- 
 ing it prudent to leave the house, 
 was followed to the door by Ebe- 
 nezer, reiterating vengeance and 
 emigration.
 
 DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 Safely in the garden, the process- 
 server turned round and shouted 
 defiance 
 
 " I'll bear in mind what you say, 
 Mr. Upcott. I'll give your mes- 
 sage. Perhaps you'll bend to cir- 
 cumstances before it is all over." 
 
 In the porch stood a little sandy- 
 faced boy in a smock. 
 
 " And what do you want ? I say, 
 what's your business ? " 
 
 " A letter vrom Missus Toop, zur," 
 piped the urchin. 
 
 " Eliza ! Eliza ! Here's something 
 for you. Some woman's foolery or 
 other, I suppose. What's it about ? 
 Some nonsense, I'll go bail." 
 
 But, without waiting for a reply, 
 he walked off towards the stable. 
 
 To the five ordinary senses, pos- 
 sessed by Mrs. Toop in no ordinary 
 degree, as compensation for spinster- 
 hood a sixth had been added a 
 sense of duty. Unlike seeing, hear- 
 ing, and such-like material percep- 
 tions, it grew alert with years, 
 brought no pleasures, but only 
 grave responsibility prompting dis- 
 interested conduct. It perceived 
 moral weaknesses, and those conse-
 
 126 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT' S 
 
 quences to which the world in 
 general is as blind as a bat. It 
 marked incongruities, and by seek- 
 ing to remove them proved that 
 the spring of lofty action is a fine 
 discernment. It inspired the fol- 
 lowing friendly letter to Mrs. 
 Upcott : 
 
 "DEAR MADAM, It may seem 
 out of place writing to acquaint 
 you of certain things but no plea- 
 sure to me as anybody must see at 
 first sight and know you ought 
 to so as not to be put out after- 
 wards when too late to lay the 
 blame at others door. But for ear- 
 say that Mr. Upcott denied Miss 
 Ruth to speak to young George 
 Biddlecombe silent would I be 
 but from a parent's word no child 
 should go though for the past 
 fortnight or more every evening 
 meet they have little thinking oi 
 an eye upon them and their every 
 action marked of which I say 
 nothing knowing well the par- 
 tiality of a mother and natural too 
 for which one would have thought 
 a daughter would have made re- 
 turn if only from a sense of duty
 
 DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 and Mr. Granger poor dear soul 
 with weak huckles lost in thought 
 quite unequal to the management 
 of a young girl wanting looking 
 after as they will and he little 
 dreaming of nothing innocent as 
 the babe unborn so that with no 
 check upon her here for interfering 
 never could I be and she not easy 
 to speak to that I must say if I 
 never write another word it would 
 be wiser to have her home under a 
 mother's guidance for meet they 
 will at Mr. Granger's and stay out 
 after dark. 
 
 " I remain 
 
 " Yours with duty 
 
 " TRYPHENA TOOP." 
 
 " Massy on me ! " ejaculated Mrs. 
 Upcott, with a sigh of relief. " The 
 wold quaddle. Why, young volk 
 must catch a mind to each other, I 
 suppwose. And Ebenezer might ha' 
 opened the letter." 
 
 But self-congratulation proved 
 premature. At that moment Ebe- 
 nezer, on horseback, pulled up at 
 the door. 
 
 "What was it from Uncle 
 Granger's, Eliza ? " he shouted.
 
 128 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 " Nothing, Ebenezer." 
 
 " Nothing ? What answer's that ? 
 I say, ' Nothing ' is a fool's answer. 
 It must have been something." 
 
 "Only from Mrs. Toop, Ebe- 
 nezer." 
 
 " But, fool as she is I say, old 
 fool as she is she didn't write about 
 nothing. What is it ? There's 
 some secret going on. You can't 
 deceive me. I say, you never de- 
 ceived me yet, and I demand, What 
 is it ? " 
 
 Recent annoyance made him 
 more exacting than usual. 
 
 " There, I don't take any notice 
 o't, Ebenezer," said Mrs. Upcott, 
 soothingly, as she handed him the 
 letter. 
 
 Ebenezer read and became almost 
 apoplectic. At the name of Biddle- 
 combe, he tore the letter in pieces, 
 and threw them fluttering to the 
 wind. Indignation against the 
 miller, impatience with difficulties, 
 and vanity goaded by failure, burst 
 forth in abuse of poor Ruth. 
 
 " I'm not surprised I don't get 
 on. It's the fault of my own 
 family. How can a man expect to 
 be respected when he's not honoured
 
 DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 by his own household ? Didn't I 
 tell Ruth never to speak to that 
 fellow again. I'll disown any 
 daughter of mine who disobeys my 
 injunctions. I'll be master of my 
 own, and have the respect of those 
 around me. And it's my opinion 
 you support her in insubordination, 
 Eliza. Now don't reply. I'll have 
 no replying when I make up my 
 mind. I'll go and speak to her at 
 once." 
 
 Kicking his horse, he splashed 
 through the brook, stumbled, 
 shouted " Hold up ! " and cantered 
 away to Woodhouse. 
 
 Dinner was just ready as he passed 
 the pine-trees. 
 
 " There's your vather, maid. Put 
 another plate and cup," said Uncle 
 Granger, and a gleam of welcome 
 and hospitality brightened his 
 face. The homeliness of the place 
 heightened by contrast the tem- 
 pestuous entrance of Ebenezer. 
 
 " I'm not pleased ! I say, I'm not 
 pleased ! " he cried, even ignoring 
 Uncle Granger's extended hand. 
 " I've been disregarded, and that I 
 will not allow. After the father 
 I've been, I deserve a very different 
 9
 
 130 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 return. I say, a very different 
 return, after the way I've slaved to 
 bring up my family. Didn't I tell 
 you never to speak to that fellow 
 again ? " 
 
 " There, there ! Do 'ee zit down ! " 
 said Uncle Granger. 
 
 " If you ever so much as look at 
 the scamp again, I'll disown you. 
 I won't have such rascally connec- 
 tions! A little hump-backed mil- 
 ler, who couldn't have got rich if 
 he hadn't gone thieving " 
 
 " There, there ! There's no harm 
 a-done." 
 
 " But I affirm thereis harm done ; 
 and I'm very much obliged to Mrs. 
 Toop for letting us know " 
 
 "But not to cause trouble, I'm 
 sure," interposed Mrs. Toop. 
 
 " There, there ! Enough zed ! 
 enough zed ! " 
 
 Uncle Granger's constant inter- 
 ruptions still more incensed Ebe- 
 nezer. Turning on that respected 
 relative, he retorted warmly 
 
 " And I say enough is not said. 
 And I'm surprised a man of your 
 years hasn't learnt sense to support 
 authority. I wish you had a pack 
 o' daughters of your own to worry
 
 DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 your life out. I I I'm angry ! 
 I'm excessively angry ! I say, jus- 
 tifiably angry ! " 
 
 And Ebenezer went out, slam- 
 ming the door behind him as a 
 mark of his displeasure. 
 
 " There, there ! Let's ha' a 
 teddy. Your vather's a bit crisp, 
 maid," said placid Uncle Granger, 
 helping himself with his fork. 
 
 " And what difference was it to 
 you, Mrs. Toop ? " cried Ruth. 
 " Who set you over me, I should 
 like to know ? I'm sure I'm not 
 going to be watched by a prying 
 peeping old maid that nobody would 
 ever have." 
 
 u To be given such words !" re- 
 plied Mrs. Toop, rising from table, 
 and speaking with determination 
 bordering on a threat. " Stay I will 
 not." 
 
 Now Uncle Granger loved peace 
 or a fair stand-up fight ; but domes- 
 tic quarrelling was his abhorence, 
 and above everything he hated 
 under-creeping. " Let's have all you 
 got to zay," was a precept which 
 sometimes varied his habitual silence. 
 
 " Well, an' you'd better goo," 
 he said, quietly.
 
 132 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 He was beginning to discover 
 that, however handy a thing a 
 woman may be in a house, two 
 women can neither promote peace 
 nor fight fair. 
 
 " And that, indeed," rejoined the 
 defiant Mrs. Toop, " will I gladly 
 do." 
 
 " I don't like zuch back-handed 
 ways." 
 
 " Nor yet I. That do I not." 
 
 " Zo you'd better make arrange- 
 ments to once." 
 
 " And many's the doors open to 
 me, that I do know. So I can go 
 this very day," 
 
 " An' I'll zee you ben't hurt by 
 it." 
 
 "Then gladly will I go this 
 minute," exulted the intrepid wo- 
 man, " and pack my things this very 
 day." 
 
 A glimmer of humorous satis- 
 faction overspread Uncle Granger's 
 countenance, and he winked tri- 
 umphantly at Ruth. But that 
 evening Mrs. Toop was in her ac- 
 customed place, and days passed 
 with no evidence of the advance of 
 the packing. 
 
 On the fourth morning the sun
 
 DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 was shining brightly, the scent of 
 flowers wafted through the open 
 window, and the air rang with the 
 charm of singing birds. 
 
 Uncle Granger rose from break- 
 fast, waddled to the window, and 
 gazed into the clear summer sky. 
 
 " I be real glad to zee zuch a 
 vine mornen' vor Mrs. Toop to goo, 
 Ruth," he said. 
 
 Perhaps he hoped Mrs. Toop 
 would take the hint. But she sat 
 rigidly silent, from a sense of duty.
 
 X. 
 
 UNCLE GRANGER'S PARTY. 
 
 was known all over 
 Camel that George and 
 his father had had words 
 and parted, and that 
 George was going round 
 a-shcep-shearing. It was 
 also known, for Mrs. Toop told, 
 that Ebenezer had come down 
 on Ruth at Uncle Granger's like 
 a thunder - clap. So everybody 
 wondered and waited to hear the 
 upshot of the matter. 
 
 " There. Don't 'ee let's have noo 
 disturbance. 'Tidden wo'th while," 
 said Uncle Granger, and for some 
 time Ruth did not meet her lover. 
 True no opportunity occurred, for 
 he was now busy enough ; but Uncle 
 Granger approvingly said, " There, 
 there. That's a good maid."
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S DAUGHTER. 135 
 
 It was formerly the custom for a 
 party of young farmers to go from 
 homestead to homestead shearing 
 the flocks of the neighbourhood, 
 and great revelry accompanied the 
 wool harvest. An evening party 
 followed the day's work. Great pre- 
 parations therefore were necessary, 
 and when word was received that 
 the shearers were coming all was 
 bustle and excitement. Uncle 
 Granger waddled round putting 
 everything " han' pat." Mrs. Toop 
 and Ruth, united on the question 
 of provisions, partially agreed about 
 George Biddlecombe. 
 
 " For why any one should think 
 harm o' George Biddlecombe, that 
 can I not see," the veteran spinster 
 admitted. 
 
 " There, there. Your vather's 
 word don't hold vor sheep-shearen'. 
 Tidden expected." 
 
 Thus Uncle Granger stretched 
 Ebenezer's law to conformity with 
 circumstances, like a commentator 
 adapting a text to human institu- 
 tions. 
 
 Now a certain grandeur character- 
 ised Uncle Granger's hospitality. 
 All the relatives accepted his invita-
 
 136 GENTLEMAN UPCOTx's 
 
 tion. This was obligatory ; because 
 as Uncle Granger was not much for 
 going out, it became a duty when 
 occasion offered to entertain him at 
 his own house. People came miles 
 to show this mark of respect, and 
 towards evening gigs and carts of 
 all description filled the barton. A 
 medley of nephews, nieces, and 
 cousins, many of them dressed in 
 black, arrived and solemnly entered 
 the house. It was almost as im- 
 pressive as a funeral. Shyness and 
 decorum kept the guests silent at 
 first, and they loafed' uneasily in 
 corners until asked to '' find a seat." 
 Then in ungainly attitudes and 
 phrase they discussed the " apple 
 bio wen." 
 
 The kettle hissed. Stacks of hot 
 toast were placed on the table. The 
 guests exhausted with apple-blowen 
 wondered at the delay. 
 
 " Why where's Mr. Upcott, then ? 
 Why where's Ebenezer ? " 
 
 This question buzzing about in 
 every imaginable tone superseded 
 the apple crop. One sheep-shearer 
 thought it a shame to keep good 
 victuals waiting. Not that he was 
 hungry himself. For that matter
 
 DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 he could wait. Another with a 
 touch of irony expected Ebenezer 
 had been detained at the last 
 moment, though of course, perhaps 
 it was the fashion with some to 
 come late. Uncle Granger waddled 
 about uneasily and kept peeping 
 from the window. 
 
 " Dear, dear, dear. Your vather 
 must ha' took offence," he whispered 
 to Ruth. 
 
 So they began tea without 
 Ebenezer. With eating and drink- 
 ing merriment increased, the com- 
 pany became boisterous, and his 
 absence was forgotten in the more 
 serious question. 
 
 " Did young John Patch bring 
 his viddle ? " 
 
 John blushed and hadn't felt sure 
 it would be wanted. Not wanted ? 
 John hadn't felt sure he could 
 play well enough. Public opinion 
 censured " zuch voolishness " until 
 the fiddle being found in a baize 
 bag under the seat of John's cart 
 the beauty of modesty became 
 universally recognised. So they 
 went out in home-ground by the 
 pine-trees, and even Uncle Granger 
 triumphed over his huckles so far
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 as to dance "Hunt the squirrel" 
 with Mrs. Toop. The relations 
 applauded. But the cousin who 
 sometimes sent tracts became sad. 
 
 " Ah," she lamented, " it may 
 amuse for the moment, but Uncle 
 George'll have to suffer for all this." 
 
 Who shall depict the simple 
 happiness of that evening ? How 
 after supper they turned out the 
 kitchen and varied dancing with 
 song, and young John Patch, now 
 irrepressible, making unearthly 
 noises whilst John King was singing 
 in his heavenly tenor, afterwards 
 explained that he was only tuning. 
 How Uncle Granger declared that 
 every one there should do some- 
 thing, and the maid who couldn't 
 sing should make a speech. How 
 they called on Uncle Granger, and 
 he only knew one song. How they 
 waited, quiet as mice, whilst he put 
 down his pipe, put down his gin- 
 and-water, put down the empty 
 glass. How seriously he gave out 
 the title, so touchingly appropriate, 
 " The Lost Sheep on the Mountain," 
 cleared his throat and sang 
 
 " Bah ! " 
 
 And how they laughed with sur-
 
 DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 prise just as if they had never heard 
 it before. 
 
 To make a long story short, the 
 speeches were dry ; the dust from 
 dancing made the men thirsty, and 
 Ruth went to the cider cellar. 
 George followed, as he said, to hold 
 the light, but put down the candle 
 because the barrel being full was 
 slow to run. It is unwise to peg a 
 cider cask. People who are not 
 particular blow up the tap, but 
 patience is the proper remedy. 
 
 " I am going away to-morrow, 
 Ruth," he whispered. 
 
 14 Away ! " 
 
 <( Yes. I've agreed to go up- 
 country to manage a mill. Slip 
 out by-and-bye to say good-bye. 
 Just a minute to say good-bye," 
 
 There was scarcely time to answer. 
 Some one shut the door " that they 
 might not be disturbed like," and 
 the party gathered outside to laugh. 
 One practical joker assured them 
 that he only was looking through 
 the keyhole. Another that nobody 
 should open the door. At last 
 elderly people who were thirsty 
 discountenanced such nonsense, and 
 the imprisonment ceased. Then as
 
 140 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 it was getting late the oldest relative 
 proposed Uncle Granger's health, 
 with a touching allusion to sup- 
 pressed gout, inadvertently coupling 
 it with the name of Mrs. Toop ; and 
 when Uncle Granger replied ex- 
 plaining that Mrs. Toop had given 
 notice to leave, that ancient lady 
 between her tears said it was " no 
 such thing," she had "never so 
 much as thought of leaving," 
 whereat every one cheered. Thus 
 encouraged she promised to tend 
 him in life and death, in sickness or 
 in health, it should make no differ- 
 ence to her, and then the party 
 broke up. Gigs and carts went 
 jogging homewards by all the high- 
 roads and lanes in the neighbour- 
 hood ; the kitchen was put straight, 
 and Uncle Granger's household 
 retired to rest. 
 
 But Ruth was not tired. The 
 moon was shining through the 
 dormer making the room quite 
 light, and she looked down upon 
 the orchard covered with blossoms 
 white as snow. 
 
 So her father had not come that 
 evening. With mingled shame and 
 sadness she pictured it all his false
 
 DAUGHTER. 141 
 
 dignity, and her mother's pathetic 
 regrets at alienation from her only 
 uncle. An irresistible spirit of 
 opposition seemed to make her 
 blood tingle in her veins, and she 
 felt as if in justice she owed him no 
 obedience whatsoever. And George 
 was going away to-morrow. Per- 
 haps she should not see him again 
 for months. It was sad beyond 
 measure to have no opportunity 
 to say good-bye. She wanted to 
 encourage him with promises ; to 
 assure and be assured of fidelity. 
 Perhaps he would think her unkind 
 or cold, fancying that she might 
 have managed to meet him. She 
 had never known the romance and 
 longing of love until now that he 
 was gone. 
 
 " Ruth." 
 
 It was only a whisper but it 
 startled her. Then she caught 
 sight of him amongst the dark 
 trunks of the apple-trees beneath 
 her window. 
 
 " Come down, Ruth." 
 
 " I couldn't." 
 
 " Just for a minute. Just to say 
 good-bye." 
 
 " I dare not."
 
 1^2 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 " Only for a minute. Nobody 
 will know." 
 
 The spell of the quiet night was 
 upon her. The scent of the silver 
 blossoms seemed to invite as sweetly 
 as this whispered conference. No- 
 body would know ! What did she 
 care if all the world should know ? 
 It was nothing to her now she had 
 promised to marry George. Proud 
 to fierceness in determination and 
 love she snatched a shawl from the 
 foot of the bed, and throwing it 
 over her head, crept down-stairs. 
 The heavy oak door creaked on its 
 rusty hinges, and she left it partly 
 open, only for a moment just to say 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 He threw his arms around her. 
 
 " Come along," he whispered. 
 
 She felt almost afraid, yet her 
 heart boldly acquitted her of wrong. 
 The moonlight glinting between 
 leaves and blossoms mottled the 
 white dress worn at Uncle Granger's 
 party as yielding to his entreaty she 
 walked beneath the branches to the 
 little stile over-right the pit. 
 
 " I couldn't help coming down," 
 she said, and hid her face upon his 
 shoulder.
 
 DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 " I came to say good-bye to the 
 
 house whether or no," he replied. 
 " When will you come back ? 
 
 Oh, when shall I see you again ? " 
 " I'll come avore the summer's 
 
 gone, if it's only for a day. Shall I 
 
 write, Ruth ? " 
 
 " It'll only make trouble. Father's 
 
 so angry, and Mother Toop would 
 
 tell." 
 
 " I'll come, and come straight to 
 
 the house. I shall think o' nothing 
 
 but you, and how to win you, Ruth. 
 
 You won't change wi' absence ? " 
 "Never. I'll never change." 
 " Not if I couldn't come ? " 
 " But you must. You will." 
 u I'll come if I walk barefoot." 
 "Hark! What is that ?" 
 They listened. In the distance 
 
 was a rumbling of wheels. Then 
 
 it ceased. 
 
 " It must have been some waggon 
 
 going along the road," said George. 
 " I think I must go in." 
 " No ; not yet. They're all asleep. 
 
 There's no need o't unless you want 
 
 to, Ruth." 
 
 " No, no. It must be after one. 
 
 I'll stay till the first glimmer of 
 
 morning gray. But Uncle Granger's
 
 144 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 up at daylight to draw the mower's 
 cider. If they should find me 
 out " 
 
 " But I love you so much, Ruth, 
 my darling. Kiss me. I'll love you 
 for ever. I'll get on so that your 
 father'll be proud o' me. If he's ever 
 hard about it, you won't change. 
 You won't change, Ruth ? " 
 
 a I will love the more. Come ! I 
 must go." 
 
 A linnet flew from the thorn-bush 
 as they passed, and sparrows were 
 beginning to twitter beneath the 
 eaves of Uncle Granger's house. 
 
 " Good-bye, good-bye." 
 
 But George held her. "Ruth," 
 he said, " there's somebody about. 
 Look ! the tracks o' the wheels are 
 fresh, for there's no dew on them. 
 Somebody has driven out o' barton. 
 Your Uncle Granger must be up 
 and gone." 
 
 The door was wide open, and 
 from the kitchen came the sound of 
 a voice bewailing bitterly. 
 
 " We shall never look volk in the 
 face again. We shall never hold up 
 our heads no more a'ter zuch a blow, 
 an' wi' eight maidens to carry the 
 shame o't to their graves. Poor
 
 DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 Ebenezer. An' he zo proud an' par- 
 ticular. 'T'ull break our hearts. 
 'T'ull break our hearts. Poor man ! " 
 " Mother ! " Trembling with fear 
 and affection Ruth ran into the 
 house. " Mother, I am here." 
 
 " To be taken quite zuddenly 
 vvi'out a thought. Poor Ebenezer ! 
 Always the best o' men, wi' the 
 temper o' a angel. Why 'twur only 
 yesterday I carr'ed out the ketchup 
 bottle in mistake vor the cow's 
 drench, an' he scarcely zo much as 
 zed a' angry word. Oh, my poor, 
 dear man. After these years." 
 
 " What is it, mother ? Is is 
 father " 
 
 " How dare you speak his name ! " 
 cried Mrs. Upcott, with that sob- 
 broken anger which is so pitiable. 
 " You never knew your duty to him. 
 You never respected him, but zet 
 yourself up against him. Poor Ebe- 
 nezer, to be taken looking at the 
 lambs in mead, and I out, and nobody 
 to know it vor hours." 
 
 " Oh, father ! poor father ! " The 
 girl put her arm around her mother's 
 neck, but Mrs. Upcott rejected the 
 proffered sympathy. 
 
 Uncle Granger looked stern. Mrs.
 
 146 GENTLEMAN UPCOT'l's 
 
 Toop, whose hurried toilet extended 
 neither to cap nor collar, bridled up 
 until her lean neck looked quite 
 swan-like. 
 
 " Your vather's to jail," said Uncle 
 Granger, sharply. 
 
 " To Ilchester jail," moaned Mrs. 
 Upcott. In distress such details 
 assume exaggerated importance. 
 
 " In jail ! Why ? He has done 
 nothing. What has he done ? " 
 
 "Tut, tut. Miller Biddlecombe 
 put him for debt." 
 
 "Biddlecombe? Miller Biddle- 
 combe put my father for debt ? 
 Miller " 
 
 The enormity of such a proceeding 
 choked her utterance, and George, x 
 who had waited in wonder because 
 the door was open, and anticipating 
 a few words, entered the doorway. 
 
 Mrs. Upcott saw him and angrily 
 thrust Ruth aside. 
 
 " It's all falseness," she cried ; " I 
 never thought to be shamed as I 
 have been this night. You've broke 
 my heart. You'd better to hold wi' 
 your Biddlecombes, an' plot, an' 
 make mischief, an' ruin your vather. 
 You thought nothing of him. You 
 didn't mind his word. You didn't
 
 DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 love your home. You've brought 
 disgrace and shame, and gone 
 
 against him. You've you've 
 
 I shall never take pride in 'ee again. 
 You'll never be Ruth to me any 
 mwore. An' zomebody must carr' 
 poor Ebenezer his breakfast, an' 
 there's nothing in house but the end 
 o' the little loin o' pork that he zed 
 were burnt in the baking." 
 
 " But it can't be for much, nor 
 long owing," said George. " That 
 I do know." 
 
 Uncle Granger turned round and 
 glanced on him as an intruder. 
 
 " Ruth and I have agreed," said 
 George, in excuse, and knowing the 
 cause of his father's action, an idea 
 of reparation filled his mind. " If 
 the old man ha' done wrong I'd be 
 the first to undo it. Ruth an' I have 
 a-promised each other. I've got 
 more thoughts o' the Upcotts than 
 o' anybody else." 
 
 " Everybody was against him. 
 Plotting behind his back in the dead 
 o' night, and he in jail. Caring more 
 for his enemies than for her own 
 father," moaned Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " It shall all be over," cried Ruth, 
 in a passion of self-renunciation. " It
 
 148 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 was good-bye ; good-bye, indeed ! 
 You must think no more of me, 
 George. It cannot be now ; never, 
 never. I will never marry." 
 
 " And very wise too, to judge by 
 troubles brought, I'm sure," inter- 
 posed Mrs. Toop. 
 
 Then Uncle Granger, pointing at 
 the door, bore down on George, 
 ponderously, like a wooden line-of- 
 battle ship, leaving no alternative 
 but to go. 
 
 The sun had risen and dew-drops 
 glistened everywhere. George looked 
 at his watch. It was four o'clock. 
 Before he could get to Camel his 
 father would be up and at work. 
 There was no time to lose, and he 
 took a bee-line across the fields. 
 
 Miller Biddlecombe, kneeling on 
 his hearth to light the fire, glanced 
 up as a passing shadow darkened 
 the window. The old man muttered 
 to himself and laughed with grim 
 mirth as he caught sight of his son. 
 " Ha ! ha ! Zo he couldn't hold out 
 long. Home's a little place till 
 you've lost it." Then raising his 
 voice "There, you needn't to 
 knock about your own door. He'll 
 wear out wi' wind an' weather zoon
 
 DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 enough. Come in, George. You be 
 just in time. What have 'ee growed 
 proud, or be zuch a stranger that 
 you mus' come home in company 
 clothes." 
 
 " 'Tvvas Mr. Granger's sheep- 
 shearing last night." 
 
 The old man ceased to laugh and 
 to hide his suspicion became intent 
 upon the fire. " Do take a pack 
 o' voolery to get a vew pack o' 
 
 wool off a vew sheep's backs . 
 
 Wer' Gentleman Upcott there ? " 
 
 u No ; he couldn't come." 
 
 George spoke carelessly, and the 
 old man was reassured. 
 
 u Belike you've a-brought word 
 o' your marriage then." 
 
 " No ; nor likely to." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! I told 'ee zo. I thought 
 she'd be too big avool vor that. She'd 
 zooner zee a vme coat than a vull 
 pocket. A vew brass buttons wi' 
 nothen under that could bulge. All 
 vor outzide show. But show's a 
 vain flattery when 'tis the gloze o' 
 nothen." 
 
 " I came to ask the bit o' money 
 you talked about. I think o' going 
 up the country. It'll be handy
 
 150 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 
 
 The miller rose, hesitating be- 
 tween doubt and disappointment. 
 
 "Did she zay no?" he asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " She said never." 
 
 " Ha ! a proud slut. Do she think 
 she's better than what you be ? I 
 told 'ee how 't'ud be. A vain fool. 
 She'll live to learn many a lesson 
 yet. But, George, what do 'ee want 
 to goo vor ? Bide at whome. What 
 is ther' atween us now, bwoy. Bide 
 at whome." 
 
 "We talked o' that some time 
 ago. 'Tis your fault," cried George, 
 bitterly. 
 
 Miller Biddlecombe fetched the 
 money without another word. 
 
 "Take it. 'Tis just as 'twas. You'd 
 better to count it, vor 'tis all you'll 
 have," he said, throwing the bag 
 upon the table. 
 
 And George, putting the money 
 in his pocket, went away at once.
 
 IX. 
 
 ILCIIESTER JAIL. 
 
 ,OHN SPRACKMAN 
 had driven Mrs. Upcott 
 to Woodhouse in the 
 little waggon with Cad- 
 bury on the board. 
 Having followed the 
 Upcott fortunes, or rather misfor- 
 tunes, through so many parishes, 
 and witnessed the fatality which 
 even the " little dunkey " could not 
 resist, he felt sad, and drank a cup 
 of Uncle Granger's cider without 
 criticism or enjoyment, only as a 
 matter of form. John was wonder- 
 ing what ought to be done. He 
 possessed peculiar wisdom ; no one 
 knew that better than himself. 
 Many times during their drive had 
 he called Mrs. Upcott to witness.
 
 152 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 " You zee, I zed, if we waited till 
 they was all whome, we shouldn't 
 meet none o' 'em on the road." 
 
 They spread " a han'vull of woat 
 straw " on the waggon floor, and 
 borrowed a couple of Uncle 
 Granger's chairs. John rode on 
 the shaft. Mrs. Upcott was silent. 
 The torrent of her lamentation had 
 run low, but tears coursed down her 
 cheeks. Ruth was wretched. Even 
 Uncle Granger with his quiet re- 
 spectability had turned away, saying 
 he could never have thought it of 
 her. 
 
 " I'll carry father's breakfast," she 
 said. 
 
 " I suppose you must," sighed 
 Mrs. Upcott, but it sounded like a 
 concession. She had never been 
 opposed to George Biddlecombe, for 
 money is a good thing, and with 
 eight daughters it is well to marry 
 one to encourage the others. But 
 no passionate experiences had taught 
 her the compulsion of love. Ebe- 
 nezer began tentatively by walking 
 home with her on Sundays after 
 church. It was considered a good 
 match. They became engaged and 
 announced their betrothal to the
 
 DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 parish by sitting side by side in the 
 same pew. Thus courtships were 
 managed when she was young, and 
 anything different was inexplicable. 
 
 " I had to goo to Limenton wi' 
 dree empty hogsheads. They got 
 to goo right enough. Don't make 
 a bit o' difference about they, that's 
 a fac'. But Miss Ruth could ride 
 on if she wer' zo-minded, an' vit in 
 very perty like, right enough," 
 said John, proud of an intellect 
 which could arrange. 
 
 Mrs. Upcott was too sad to 
 answer, and this was the only con- 
 versation on that melancholy jour- 
 ney. As they reached Marston, 
 people were stirring, and they met 
 a milking party in a cart. Curios- 
 ity was aroused. But what matter ? 
 The story must be all over the 
 parish in no time. 
 
 As John u hitched out " his horse 
 that morning he made up his mind. 
 Horse-shoes, a bullock's heart 
 stuffed with pins and other well- 
 known remedies against evil luck he 
 had tried in vain. But a co-relation 
 exists between complaint and cure. 
 Even in farriery there are certain 
 things for certain diseases, and the
 
 154 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S 
 
 domestic pharmacopoeia being ex- 
 hausted, it is time to call in the 
 farrier. John determined to take 
 advice ; so with a waggon-line in 
 one hand for a blind, and a pair o' 
 names in the other, " to draw any 
 beddy off the scent like," he crossed 
 the home-ground, and under cover 
 of the hedgerows, struck into the 
 lane. 
 
 On a strip of land, evidently 
 snatched from the wayside, stood a 
 low, thatched cottage, almost hidden 
 in foliage and approached by a path 
 through the narrow garden. A 
 moss-covered apple-tree leaned over 
 the lane. A couple of beehives 
 stood beneath it. John hesitated, 
 glanced round, and made for the 
 garden gate. 
 
 Then a strange thing happened. 
 No sooner did John's finger lift the 
 latch than a woman came out of 
 the cottage door, and boldly con- 
 fronting him, told his business " vor 
 all the world as if she could read 
 the mind o' man like a open book." 
 
 She was neither old nor thin, but 
 apparently well to do, and natural 
 assurance or practice had made her 
 very voluble.
 
 DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 " Zo you've come at last and not 
 one day too soon if not too late, for 
 it's a hard spell and hard to find the 
 thread, but though the power is 
 strong, strong's the cure. I was 
 waiting for you, John Sprackman, 
 for come you must I knew, to tell 
 o' harm to hoof an' horn, and if 
 somethen izzen zoon done it'll be 
 ruin if not death. Go back an' 
 watch, John Sprackman, an' avore 
 another noon will come a change. 
 Whoever does this work shall come 
 or zend to offer kindness. Come or 
 zend they cannot help, but let me 
 know, John Sprackman, whether 
 a-voot, on lags vour, or wi' how 
 many wheels." 
 
 Then she shut the door behind 
 her with a slam which John recog- 
 nised as final. A tabby cat crept 
 into the window and settled beneath 
 the slanting ray of the morning 
 sun ; and John was taken all over 
 with such a trembling that he 
 gladly got back to his horses as 
 quickly as possible. 
 
 Then the hogsheads were con- 
 veniently arranged, and Ruth started 
 on her errand. The sun peeped over 
 the hedgerows. Each leaf and
 
 156 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 blade wore a bead of dew, and 
 everything was bright and fresh. 
 Now a field of beans in flower, then 
 a herd being milked in the corner 
 of a pasture, filled the air with frag- 
 rance. Nowhere was sadness but in 
 Ruth's heart. Even there it could 
 not hide undisturbed. 
 
 As they passed a homestead by 
 the roadside, a young girl, sparkling 
 with pleasure, ran out and put her 
 hand on the tail-board of the wag- 
 gon. 
 
 " Ruth ! Ruth ! why, where are 
 you going so early ? " 
 
 " Only to Ilchester for some- 
 thing." 
 
 " But I thought you were at Mr. 
 Granger's. It's pleasant in the 
 early morning before it gets so hot. 
 When did you come home? But 
 I say, Ruth well, I won't mention 
 anything now. But I wish you 
 luck. Good-bye, Ruth. I wish you 
 luck." 
 
 Once an opulent neighbour, am- 
 bling by on horseback, drew rein to 
 say: 
 
 " Oh, Miss Upcott ! father at 
 home ? I wish you'd say, if he 
 should be passing my way, I should
 
 DAUGHTER. 157 
 
 be glad of a word with him. All 
 well at home, I hope. Good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 So the family disaster was still 
 a secret, whilst her courtship evi- 
 dently interested the neighbour- 
 hood. She resented even good 
 wishes now that love was crushed 
 in calamity and pride stifled in jail. 
 She pictured her father broken 
 down with shame and misfortune, 
 and wished to give him consolation 
 if that were possible. She would 
 always obey him in future, if there 
 were a future, which seemed doubt- 
 ful. She knew his pride, and thought 
 he would never raise his head 
 again. 
 
 Outside the town she alighted 
 and crossed the bridge. The prison 
 walls towered above the river bank, 
 and turning to the left she walked 
 beneath their gloomy shadow to 
 the jail-door. Summoning courage 
 she knocked and was admitted. 
 Within the entrance a turnkey was 
 standing at the desk making entries. 
 For a moment he did not look up, 
 and Ruth glanced at a copy of 
 rules hanging on the wall. Visi- 
 tors were to be admitted at nine
 
 158 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 o'clock, and now it was scarcely 
 eight. Then she read a notice in 
 gilt letters instructing charity how 
 to assist poor debtors, and peered 
 through the bars of a massive iron 
 gate at the flagstone pavement be- 
 fore the governor's house. 
 
 Presently the scratching of the 
 pen ceased. 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " Mr. Upcott, if you please." 
 
 The man smiled. 
 
 " Brought his bail ? " 
 
 " I 1 brought his breakfast." 
 
 " It's too early for visitors. Well, 
 you'll know better next time," 
 said the turnkey, opening the huge 
 gate as a favour. " Turn to the 
 right and knock at the door. Ask 
 for the conversation room. Any 
 one will show you." 
 
 It was summer, yet unhealthy 
 moisture oozed from the walls, where 
 ferns were clinging to the crevices. 
 So complete the precautions against 
 escape, the very air seemed heavy 
 and oppressed ; the sun, a mere 
 visitor, paid only restricted visits, 
 whilst the fresh wind of heaven re- 
 joiced in freedom and passed by. 
 "You'll know better next time."
 
 DAUGHTER. 159 
 
 These words of encouragement 
 sounded like a knell. The idea of 
 an occasional visitor was evidently 
 unfamiliar to the prison official. 
 As Ruth drew near the building 
 which had been indicated, a well- 
 known voice greeted her ear. 
 
 " And, I say, if you know any- 
 thing about law, you'll know it 
 can't be done. I say, it can't be 
 done. I was almost bred a lawyer 
 myself, but my father changed his 
 mind. I say you can proceed by 
 mesne or by writ, and I've been 
 falsely arrested. Why, I put in an 
 appearance. I say, I put in an 
 appearance Come in." 
 
 In obedience to the invitation, 
 Ruth entered a room, small and 
 bare, with a stone floor but no fire- 
 place. Her father, seated on a 
 bench, was explaining his position 
 to a group of gentlemen debtors, 
 who listened with sympathy, having 
 all been victims of false affidavits 
 or procedure. An old man, bent 
 and decrepid, was sweeping the 
 floor a poor debtor ekeing out 
 the county allowance by a pittance 
 earned in the service of gentlemen 
 debtors he had run the whole
 
 160 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 gamut of experience, and no form 
 of arrest was unfamiliar to him. 
 
 " Ne exeat regno" he piped in a 
 shrill voice. 
 
 " What, Ruth ! My daughter, 
 gentlemen, I say, my daughter." 
 
 The gentlemen debtors bowed 
 with that united grace and dignity 
 acquired only by unmerited mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 " My daughter is residing with 
 Mr. Granger, I say, with the gentle- 
 man of whom I spoke. Did your 
 uncle come himself, Ruth ? Did 
 Mr. Granger come himself? I 
 knew I shouldn't have long to wait. 
 You remember, gentlemen, I said I 
 shouldn't have long to wait." 
 
 The affection cherished towards 
 him vanished, and her heart 
 hardened. Her mother was broken- 
 hearted, the family respectability 
 wrecked ; yet forgetting every one 
 but himself, his vanity only boasted 
 more loudly, seeking the good opin- 
 ion of men whose mean appearance 
 aroused her scorn. 
 
 " I brought your breakfast," she 
 said, haughtily. 
 
 "Eh, what? Breakfast? Where 
 is your Uncle Granger, then I ask, 
 where is he ? "
 
 DAUGHTER. l6l 
 
 "I do not know. I came 
 alone." 
 
 The gentlemen debtors smiled, 
 having heard this sort of thing 
 before. 
 
 " Not know ? But Mr. Granger 
 must be somewhere. I say, he 
 must be somewhere. But I suppose 
 there are formalities. No doubt, 
 gentlemen, there are formalities. 
 How your mother burnt this pork 
 to be sure. I say, Ruth, how your 
 mother burnt this pork. There, 
 don't stand about. Spread the 
 little napkin on that corner, and 
 I'll just pick a bone picnic fashion. 
 I say, picnic fashion." 
 
 The bone, not being disjointed, 
 proved refractory, and before Ebe- 
 nezer could detach it, a man entered 
 the room waving a paper to dry the 
 ink. 
 
 " It's all right, Mr. Upcott. The 
 money's paid. I brought you the 
 receipt." 
 
 Ebenezer rose proudly. 
 
 " I knew there were prelimi- 
 naries. I say, I said there were 
 formalities. Is Mr. Granger wait- 
 ing outside." 
 
 " It's a rum go," replied the man. 
 ii
 
 1 62 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 " The plaintiff sent to pay off the 
 money himself." 
 
 " What ? I say, what ? Paid it 
 himself. Then he knows he's 
 done wrong. A rascal. I say, he's 
 found he's done wrong. But this 
 shall cost him a pretty penny before 
 Ebenezer Upcott's done with it. 
 Just hand me my hat. I say, would 
 you kindly hand me my hat. Never 
 mind the basket, Ruth, there's 
 many an unfortunate man here'll be 
 glad with the contents. Here, I 
 say, here's a beautiful piece of pork. 
 Good morning, gentlemen. I've 
 been falsely imprisoned. I say, I've 
 been improperly incarcerated. But 
 it'll be heard of. I say, this'll be 
 heard of again. Come, Ruth. 
 Don't stand about. I say, good 
 morning to you, gentlemen." 
 
 It was heard again that day many 
 times. As they issued from the 
 prison gate George Biddlecombe 
 was passing down the street. See- 
 ing the waggon, he had loitered, 
 hoping to speak to Ruth, but 
 Ebenezer, staring disdainfully into 
 space, strode past him, roaring his 
 threats to the world. (i I've been 
 illegally arrested by a set of villains,
 
 DAUGHTER. 163 
 
 I say, a set of blackguards. But I 
 shall set the law in motion, and 
 it won't stop where it is. I was 
 almost bred to the law myself. I 
 say, my father nearly bound me to 
 the law at one time, but it fell 
 through." 
 
 As they crossed the market-place 
 people ran out to ascertain what 
 was amiss, and Ruth, frightened 
 and ashamed, dared not glance at 
 her departing lover. Yet she felt 
 sure he must have paid the money. 
 Nor did Ebenezer's excitement 
 abate during his homeward journey. 
 His imprisonment seemed a matter 
 of almost national importance, and 
 believing the county to be full of it, 
 he kept explaining and reiterating 
 even to John Sprackman. 
 
 " Oh no ! John Sprackman. You 
 never thought to see your master 
 in jail. I say, you never thought 
 to see Mr. Upcott in jail. But 
 there is villainy in this world. 
 There are people in this world 
 busy in knavish tricks, John 
 Sprackman." 
 
 "Noo vear," concurred John 
 Sprackman. 
 
 "But they know they've done
 
 1 64 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 wrong. I tell you, they know it. 
 You can't arrest, I say, John 
 Sprackman, you can't arrest when 
 I've entered an appearance. That's 
 mesne process, but now we're both 
 in court. I say, we're both in 
 court, John Sprackman." 
 
 "To be zure ; to be zure," said 
 John, slowly, never doubting the 
 truth, but only the meaning. 
 
 " But they've got a rum fellow to 
 deal with. I say, they've got a rum 
 fellow to deal with, John Sprack- 
 man," boasted Ebenezer. 
 
 " An' zo they have," agreed 
 John. 
 
 " And they find that out. I say, 
 they'll soon find that out." 
 
 " An' zo they will." 
 
 "And they'll see themselves. I 
 say, Miller Biddlecombe '11 see his 
 own folly." 
 
 " I'll warr'nt un." 
 
 " If he doesn't do so already. But 
 I maintain he's found his error. 
 He's in a pugsy, and I say he's 
 drawing back. Why, would any 
 man living run up law expenses to 
 defray them himself next morning ? 
 That's not nature, John Sprack- 
 man. I say, that's not reason.
 
 DAUGHTER. 165 
 
 That's something like hot and cold, 
 sour and sweet, cross and kind all 
 at one time. Would Miller Biddle- 
 combe get up early to do me a 
 kindness if he didn't know he'd 
 done me a wrong ? Besides, in law 
 the debt's paid. I say, in law the 
 debt's paid, John Sprackman. And 
 he's not the man to throw away 
 money. I say, he wouldn't give 
 me money out of kindness ; he's 
 not the man." 
 
 " Never happened," said John, 
 who was sitting on the " reaves " of 
 the waggon. The weather was not 
 so wonderful warm to ride, for there 
 was a goodish wind up, but John 
 broke out all over in a sweat. A 
 man may well feel warm who 
 touches the supernatural. The 
 destroyer of " the little dunkey " 
 stood revealed. Miller Biddle- 
 combe had been witching Ebenezer 
 Upcott. 
 
 Mrs. Upcott sat thinking over 
 her troubles, confused and broken 
 down, like a person stunned by a 
 heavy blow. Even the tears in her 
 eyes lacked decision to fall. Uncle 
 Granger had promised to " zee 
 what could be done ; " but this
 
 1 66 GENTLEMAN UPCOTX'S 
 
 assurance was so vague that to use 
 a phrase of her own, she did " not 
 know what to think or how to look 
 at things." 
 
 " Poor Ebenezer," she sighed ; 
 " it's only envy because he keeps 
 himself up, that's all. Poor Ebene- 
 zer." 
 
 The postman had been, and a 
 letter from Sempronia lay unopened 
 on her lap. 
 
 " Poor maid," she said, pitying 
 Scmpronia's ignorance of the 
 calamity. " But I suppose I mid 
 zo well zee what she do zay La, 
 dear ! an' we've zent vor Jenny an' 
 all." 
 
 Just then the waggon arrived, 
 but Mrs. Upcott did not move. 
 Ruth would bring more troubles 
 soon enough. 
 
 But Ebenezer entered the front 
 door like a whirlwind. " Eliza ! 
 Eliza ! I say, Eliza ! Breakfast, 
 Eliza ! Here I am, Eliza ! Stir 
 about ! I've been the victim of 
 villainy the prey of a false affi- 
 davit. Come, come, I'm as hungry 
 as a hunter. I'm as hungry as a 
 hound." 
 
 In the first impulse of joy she
 
 DAUGHTER. 167 
 
 rushed out to embrace her husband 
 in congratulation upon his return. 
 But he was so full of haste and 
 consideration of himself that her 
 intention failed, and she replied : 
 
 " Yes, Ebenezer. At once, Ebene- 
 zer, I'm sure." . 
 
 " What's the letter, Eliza ? " 
 
 " Why, it's from Sempronia. 
 She's coming home. An' after 
 we've zent vor Jenny an' all." 
 
 Ebenezer stamped with im- 
 patience. " What ? Am I to be 
 saddled with a pack of girls ? 
 Times won't stand it. I say, 
 seasons won't admit of it. It's a 
 very good thing Ruth is gone to 
 Uncle Granger's." 
 
 Maternal love melted Mrs. Up- 
 cott's heart. At any cost Ruth's 
 indiscretion must be hidden from 
 her father. " Massy on me, Ebene- 
 zer," she said, " an' if the kitchen 
 vire isn't a'most out." 
 
 "Then I can't wait. Business is 
 business, and there are the mowers 
 to look to. I'm not particular. I'll 
 take a crust and go. Anything'll 
 do for me. I say, anything's good 
 enough for me." 
 
 Mrs. Upcott bustled to no pur-
 
 1 68 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 pose. He was excited and would 
 not wait, and now, more than his 
 imprisonment, she lamented the in- 
 sufficiency of his meal. 
 
 In the passage he met Ruth. 
 " Mr. Culliford wants to see you, 
 father. I met him this morning." 
 
 "He can find me. I say, I sup- 
 pose he can discover me," said 
 Upcott sharply, and went into the 
 lane. 
 
 " Poor Ebenezer ! " Mrs. Upcott 
 watched him from the window. In 
 girlhood she had accepted him at 
 his own valuation, and the standard 
 had never depreciated. His boasts 
 were current coin, which, ignorant 
 of their worthlessness, she passed to 
 the next comer. He had not suc- 
 ceeded, true, but that was the times, 
 Ebenezer said so constantly himself. 
 And the seasons were bad also ; 
 that was admitted by everybody 
 connected with land. Neither sum- 
 mer nor winter could be depended 
 upon, and it was clear that nature 
 or the almanack must have gone 
 wrong. But when sun, rain, frost, 
 and snow lose their way and do 
 not keep their appointments, that 
 puzzles the farmer.
 
 DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 " Poor Ebenezer ! " What a 
 wealth of simple loyalty the words 
 conveyed. 
 
 As Upcott crossed the fields that 
 morning he caught a glimpse of his 
 circumstances in their true perspec- 
 tive. He stood looking at his cattle 
 standing in grass which grew so 
 fast that they could not keep it 
 down. The farm, though small, 
 was miserably understocked, and to 
 every traveller who peeped over the 
 hedgerows scarcity of money must 
 be evident. There are symptoms 
 of poverty which cannot be hidden. 
 How frequently had he pointed 
 them out elsewhere in the most 
 improving manner. Now he realised 
 their presence, and for a moment 
 his blustering vanity melted into 
 cowardice. He could not face the 
 disgrace of poverty. 
 
 He was over head and ears in 
 debt. The message just delivered 
 by Ruth was from a creditor, and 
 he cast about for an expedient to 
 supply this present want, but could 
 find none. Hitherto the wild talk 
 of leaving the country had meant 
 nothing, but now flight seemed a 
 solution of his difficulty. No natural
 
 170 GENTLEMAN UPCOTX's 
 
 affection bound him to home, and 
 unconscious of his own short- 
 comings, he blamed his wife's 
 management and the extravagance 
 of his daughters. In the misery of 
 despondency the temptation to 
 desert his family grew strong. 
 But he had no money, no destina- 
 tion, no capacity for earning his 
 own livelihood elsewhere. In this 
 moment of rare insight even his 
 own deficiency became clear to 
 him. 
 
 The sound of distant voices and 
 the sharp grating of a whetstone 
 against the scythe recalled his 
 thoughts, and he hurried across the 
 field. Constant to his habit he 
 accused the mowers of idleness, 
 rated them for taking advantage of 
 his absence, loudly asserting that he 
 would stand no trifling. 
 
 A rural giant, with straps around 
 his wrists and yellow trousers, tied 
 at the knee with twine, stopped 
 mowing and wiped the sweat from 
 his brow Avith the back of his hand. 
 " Did 'ee zee Mr. Granger, zur ? " 
 " No. Where ? When ? " 
 " He went on." The man became 
 engrossed in his work.
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 "When? I say, when? I ask, 
 how long ago ? " 
 
 "A little by now." The man 
 bending over his work could hardly 
 be heard. 
 
 " What ? Stop, I say, stop. Did 
 he ask for me ? Did he go to the 
 house ? " 
 
 The mower paused, weighing each 
 circumstance with judicial gravity in 
 anxiety not to deceive. 
 
 " I do lot he did." 
 
 " Well, get on. I say, get on as 
 fast as you can. Don't let me have 
 any nonsense. I say, no loitering 
 about." 
 
 " Maester ! Maester ! " 
 
 " What is it now ? I can't stay." 
 
 " Be we to goo into little mead 
 a'ter this ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Certainly. Push on. 
 I say, I can't stay." 
 
 Then satisfaction rippled over the 
 man's face as his comrades exchanged 
 glances and laughed. 
 
 At the mention of his distinguished 
 relative, Ebenezer hurried home, full 
 of amateur law and explanations of 
 the false affidavit. Perhaps Uncle 
 Granger might be induced to lend 
 financial aid. But the idea of seizing
 
 173 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 misfortune by the throat and grap- 
 pling with it did not occur to 
 Ebenezer. With that fatuity which 
 so often accompanies insolvency he 
 determined to boast of prospective 
 damages, and borrow twenty pounds. 
 
 Uncle Granger, in shirt-sleeves, 
 occupied the stone seat under the 
 shadow of the porch. His red waist- 
 coat was open, his chest expanded 
 by the heat. The inevitable pipe 
 and cup kept him company. The 
 old man waved a stick in congratu- 
 lation, and Ebenezer considered his 
 affair as good as settled. 
 
 "There, there. Zit down," said 
 Uncle Granger. 
 
 Ebenezer took the opposite seat, 
 his top-boots a sort of antithesis to 
 Uncle Granger's knee-breeches and 
 hose. 
 
 Uncle Granger placed the cup con- 
 veniently between them. " There's 
 a wonderful vine swath o' grass to 
 year," he said ; but presently added 
 the wise'limitation. "Mwost places." 
 
 "A wonderful swath, I agree, 
 Uncle Granger ; a wonderful swath. 
 But what good's that ? I defy any 
 man to live. I say, there isn't meat 
 and drink in the land in these times,"
 
 DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 said Ebenezer, hiding his face in the 
 cider-cup. "What do you think, 
 Uncle Granger ? " 
 
 Uncle Granger stared at the roof, 
 then at the blue flag-stones, and re- 
 flected. 
 
 " Mus' be very warm to walk," he 
 said. 
 
 " And so it is. Very warm in- 
 deed. I say, this is a fine thing, 
 putting me to jail. A disgraceful 
 thing ! But it's not the last of it." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " interrupted Uncle 
 Granger, sympathetically. 
 
 " Only it'll be the other way about 
 before 'tis finished. I've been unjusti- 
 fiably taken. But no matter. Biddle- 
 combe has paid already, and he'll 
 have more to pay yet. I say, it's 
 perjury, rank perjury ,Uncle Granger. 
 Mind, I don't deny that money is 
 tight. With the country in such a 
 state, any man might find himself 
 tight temporarily. But I was taken 
 unprepared. All I wanted was time, 
 I say, time to realise. And that is 
 just the difficulty ; that's where 
 wisdom comes in in realising. 
 But it can't be done, I say, it can't 
 be done at present prices." 
 
 Ebenezer paused for corroboration
 
 174 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 of this great economic truth ; but 
 Uncle Granger scratched his nose 
 with his pipe - stem to promote 
 thought. 
 
 " And that's just the difficulty, 
 Uncle Granger. I shall get damages 
 heavy damages. But you can't 
 get law without money. Money is 
 the mainspring of law and the lever 
 of legislation. And I want you to 
 advance me a few pounds as an ac- 
 commodation. You know me, Uncle 
 Granger. I say, you know me, and 
 I don't want much but well say 
 twenty pounds. I say, say twenty 
 pounds, Uncle Granger." 
 
 Uncle Granger did not say twenty 
 pounds, he opened his eyes wide, as 
 as if experiencing the difficulty of 
 realising, and stared at the moisture 
 on the stones. 
 
 "The vlags do heave. Zign o' 
 fickle weather. Teazen vor hay- 
 meaken," he said, rising from his seat. 
 
 "And what shall we say, Uncle 
 Granger ? " pressed Ebenezer. 
 
 "Well, I'll take a vew days to 
 think," he answered, slowly waddling 
 out to look at the sky. 
 
 " Exactly. I'll look over. I say, 
 I'll look over."
 
 DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 " Or I'll let 'ee know when I do 
 make up my mind. Yes. There's 
 a vine swath to year, a wondervul 
 vine swath in zome parts. But I 
 won't keep you, Ebenezer. I'll get 
 on now." 
 
 " Nonsense ! I say, nonsense ! 
 Why you'll stay to dinner. Eliza ! 
 Ruth ! Come, I say. Here's Uncle 
 Granger thinking of going." 
 
 Mrs. Upcott came running out. 
 " Now don't 'ee, Uncle Granger. 
 Don't 'ee, to be sure." 
 
 "And Ruth isn't ready yet," added 
 Ebenezer. 
 
 But no persuasion could induce 
 Uncle Granger to sit down again. 
 
 " Ruth ! I say, Ruth ! " 
 
 " Ruth isn't going back," explained 
 Mrs. Upcott. " Not to once." 
 
 u Not going back ? I say, not 
 going back ? Going to desert her 
 Uncle Granger ? No, that's not 
 Ruth. I say, that's not Ruth." 
 
 " Well, you zee, Mrs. Toop " 
 
 Mrs. Upcott, detecting herself mak- 
 ing a false excuse, stammered and 
 stopped. 
 
 Then the depth of Uncle Granger 
 became apparent. " You zee, Ebe- 
 nezer," he said, impressively, " Two
 
 176 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 
 
 women in house together do breed 
 complications." 
 
 " That's true. I say, that's true," 
 replied Ebenezer, who had learnt 
 this before the distribution of his 
 daughters. 
 
 Presently he followed the little 
 low cart to the brink of the brook. 
 " Then I shall hear from you, Uncle 
 Granger ? " 
 
 And Uncle Granger, turning 
 slowly round, replied, " Well, mab- 
 be." 
 
 "I can't think what Uncle Granger 
 can be thinking o'. To goo wi'out 
 zo much as a mouthful to stay his 
 stomach," said Mrs. Upcott.
 
 XII. 
 
 IN DARKNESS. 
 
 JLD Tommy White was 
 dead, and Miller Biddle- 
 combe bought the close 
 of pasture and the bit 
 of arable ground. But 
 increased possessions 
 brought him no pleasure. When 
 George paid Ebenezer Upcott's debt 
 the old man looked into the chasm 
 between himself and his son, and it 
 seemed impassable. Some eccen- 
 tricities of youth he could under- 
 stand, and forgive : that George 
 should fall in love was natural, 
 and Ruth alone to blame ; but to 
 trifle with money transactions was 
 an immorality, wild almost to mad- 
 ness. Property and gold possessed 
 for him a being something like life, 
 with claims and rights which all 
 persons should respect ; and so, 
 
 12 181
 
 178 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 having ceased to covet it, he, never- 
 theless, bought White's land. It 
 lay so handy that the purchase was 
 almost an act of religion. 
 
 But George was gone ! From 
 his home, his future, and his heart. 
 Up to this time his solitude had 
 been self-inflicted, and it had never 
 been complete. But suddenly the 
 neighbours ceased coming to his 
 mill. He knew their ways so well, 
 and watched the Toops drive past 
 on their appointed days carrying 
 their custom to Sparkford. Some- 
 times no one entered the mill-yard 
 on business for a week ; and if he 
 had not been rich he must have 
 become ruined. He understood also 
 the unpopularity in which he must 
 be held the hatred, indeed, which 
 alone could induce these frugal- 
 minded folk to travel further to 
 their own disadvantage. But he 
 did not know that John Sprackman 
 had been telling the most wonder- 
 ful tales, of how he went to the 
 witch, who told him all he knew 
 before he had so much as a minute 
 to wag his tongue, and put a stronger 
 spell on Miller Biddlecombe, so that 
 he had to send the money that same
 
 DAUGHTER. 179 
 
 morning early to pay off his own 
 debt, and let Ebenezer Upcott out 
 of Ilchester Jail. He did not know 
 that the death of " the two sparked 
 cows and the little dunkey " lay at 
 his door, and that women called 
 their children from playing on the 
 bridge over the mill-stream for fear 
 that old Biddlecombe should look 
 upon them with his evil eye. 
 
 Then the solitude became some- 
 thing awful, for the wheel was silent, 
 and the water rushed to waste over 
 the weir. And having nothing to 
 do, he took to sitting by the hatches 
 all day long. It was enough to 
 make a man mad to watch the 
 giddy water always sweeping by 
 and churning up the mud in the 
 pool below. But worse than the 
 waste was the constant thought of 
 that lost opportunity always passing 
 through his brain. Ebenezer Up- 
 cott was free free, in a sort of way, 
 by means of his, Miller Biddle- 
 combe's, money. This feeling of 
 his utter helplessness to injiire the 
 people he hated the fools who had 
 stolen his money and taken away 
 his son kept gnaAving at his heart. 
 He sometimes felt that he could
 
 l8o GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 murder Ebenezer Upcott ; and he 
 wished that he could hear that Ruth 
 was dead. The certainty that utter 
 ruin must, in the natural sequence of 
 events, befall these people was no 
 solace to him now, so bitterly did 
 he lament the lost delight of en- 
 compassing their fall. He used to 
 sit for hours muttering imprecations 
 and evil wishes against Ebenezer. 
 " May he come to beg, an' want, 
 an' be refused relief. May he die 
 in workhouse, an' lie wi'out a stone 
 above his head." 
 
 Then his thoughts would wander 
 back to George. " To come in the 
 early morning, as fresh as lying, wi' 
 a silken tongue, to hold me up a 
 fool for folk to glene at." For years 
 he had not loved his neigbours ; and 
 yet, humanity is so hard to die ! he 
 needs must suffer under the sense 
 of public odium. Once, but only 
 once, when some passers stopped 
 upon the bridge where the high- 
 road crosses the mill-stream, and 
 looked at him, and laughed, in 
 his impotent anger he cursed 
 George. But, frightened at his 
 own words, he got up hastily and 
 altered the hatch.
 
 DAUGHTER. l8l 
 
 It was strange that with all this 
 misery and malice he could not 
 summon force of mind to alter his 
 will. He talked of it constantly. 
 " I'll take a name out of a list, an' 
 leave it to a name that is nothen' to 
 me. I'll leave it to a pauper wi' 
 parish pay." This was the expres- 
 sion of the loftiest height of scorn 
 and the deepest depth of contempt 
 that his mind could conceive, and yet 
 he dared not to do it. Besides, he saw 
 in his keen way that such a will 
 would certainly defeat itself, and be 
 set aside without difficulty. He 
 could only determine to live on in 
 the useless mill and let it fall into 
 ruin, to put no money out to use, 
 but to eat the principal, and to let 
 the land go down. This was per- 
 haps the lowest depravity to which 
 a man of his habits and ideas could 
 fall. And yet he must let his dairy, 
 for he could not look after the cows. 
 
 Thus the summer passed ; the 
 harvest was exceptionally fine and 
 early, and the following Sunday was 
 to be the thanksgiving day for 
 harvest-home. It was Saturday 
 evening, and the villagers were 
 flitting to and fro laden with flowers
 
 1 82 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 and fruits to decorate the parish 
 church. The yellow-headed Toop 
 drove by with boughs in a light 
 spring-cart. His sister, an expan- 
 sive maiden of five and twenty, 
 followed on foot in her short sleeves 
 and open neck a species of modern 
 Ceres carrying a pumpkin ; and 
 the village children had all picked 
 posies to lay around the rim of the 
 old stone font. 
 
 But Miller Biddlecombe would 
 not have turned his head if the 
 whole pageant of human vanity had 
 passed his door. He got up sick at 
 heart and went into his house. 
 
 There was to be an anthem too ; 
 and the village choir, meaning to 
 show the parish some pretty singing, 
 had worked with zeal. But trebles 
 will hurry and basses do drag, and a 
 tenor either does not strike in soon 
 enough, or will hold on after the 
 rest. Now independently every 
 Camel singer was perfect ; that was 
 universally claimed and admitted. 
 But concerted music is a species of 
 volley-firing and unless you come 
 in Bang ! the effect is lost. And 
 an anthem is a particular thing a 
 very touchy thing. It is no good
 
 DAUGHTER. 183 
 
 to think you can sing an anthem all 
 by yourself, and unless this is recog- 
 nised it is better to stay at home. 
 
 Therefore, when the decorations 
 were finished, there was a practice 
 which lasted quite late ; and as 
 the choristers were groping down 
 the steps by the churchyard gate 
 some one noticed a narrow strip 
 of light stretching across the mill- 
 yard. 
 
 " I wonder what wold miller's up 
 to," said one. 
 
 " Noo good," replied another. 
 
 a Let's zee." 
 
 " Now all goo down quiet an' peep 
 bczide the window-blind." 
 
 Biddlecombe was sitting in his 
 chintz-covered chair, leaning on the 
 table with his head upon his arms. 
 
 (i Let's holler an' vrighten un." 
 
 " Now look here. Do it a bit 
 tidy like to make un jump. Let's 
 het in altogether like a ' Glory 
 be.' " 
 
 "Now then. One two dree 
 HEIGH ! " 
 
 The miller started and raised his 
 head staring and confused. Per- 
 haps he had been dreaming, but 
 conscious now that he could be
 
 184 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 
 
 observed, he rose quickly and blew 
 out the candle. 
 
 After that evening there was 
 never a light in the mill-house ; and 
 after leaving the hatches, if Miller 
 Biddlecombe ever sat up, it must 
 have been in darkness.
 
 XIII. 
 
 SEMPRONIA. 
 
 HERE is no spur to action 
 so sharp as a point of 
 dignity ; and Sempronia, 
 deeply wounded in an 
 altercation concerning one 
 of the keys, unexpectedly 
 returned home. She travelled by 
 coach to a neighbouring town, and, 
 still burning with resentment, 
 walked to Marston in the heat of 
 the day, leaving her luggage to be 
 fetched at convenience. Striding 
 like an Amazon along the dusty 
 road, never lagging in the sun, nor 
 loitering in the shade, her glory was 
 that she had unmistakably asserted 
 her independence. No one ever 
 dared to hint that Sempronia was 
 in error, or might have acted 
 differently. She was right, quite 
 right, and watchful for the merest
 
 1 86 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 inuendo to the contrary. Her erect 
 bearing expressed integrity and a 
 consciousness of the accuracy of all 
 her judgments. 
 
 Sempronia was tall and severe, 
 severe enough for anything if she 
 had not been commonplace. But 
 there was nothing classical about 
 Sempy, except the name. In per- 
 sonal appearance and disposition she 
 resembled her father, being master- 
 ful and overbearing ; but in this she 
 gloried, believing any eccentricity 
 of temper explained and redeemed 
 by the affirmation that she was an 
 Upcott. But Sempronia possessed 
 common sense and courage, and, 
 being five and thirty, was impatient 
 with frivolity and disaster. She 
 found Mrs. Upcott alone, for 
 Ebenezer, now over head and ears 
 in difficulties, had gone to see Uncle 
 Granger. 
 
 " Why, an' if here isn't Scmpy. 
 Well, now ! Sempy ! " 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Sempronia. 
 " Here I am." 
 
 " An' zo you be." 
 
 "Yes. I came away at short 
 notice, but I'm an Upcott. I always 
 was."
 
 DAUGHTER. 187 
 
 " An' zo you was." 
 
 " And always shall be, I suppose," 
 said Sempronia, sharply. " But I 
 don't stand any nonsense. We had 
 a few words about the yellow soap 
 in the corner cupboard, and I said 
 if things were weighed like a work- 
 house I'd go at once. That wouldn't 
 do for me." 
 
 " Don't 'ee talk o' workhouse, 
 child. I can't abear it." 
 
 " Why, what's that, mother ? " 
 
 "We're ruined, Sempy, or soon 
 shall be. There's one an' another 
 been here an' talked loud, an' your 
 father have a - made a mint o' 
 promises to pacify 'em. But there 
 isn't a penny, Sempy, not one, or 
 why didn't he pay instead o' going 
 to jail, as anybody would you may 
 be sure. We've never been lucky, 
 never, since the day we married ag' 
 went to Cadbury. Zomething's 
 always been awry, either the prices 
 or the seasons or the labourers, an' 
 when it wasn't that it was the stock. 
 An' now it's such a wondervul 
 zeason, it's no good to anybody 
 because there's no money left in the 
 country. Ebene/cr said so himself. 
 There's nothing to buy with or sell
 
 1 88 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 for, an' it's no wonder volk don't 
 get on, the wonder is that any do, 
 Ebenezer told me so himself. And, 
 Sempy, we shall be sold up. And 
 that'll be the end o' all, vor if it 
 isn't zooner 't'll be Michaelmas, 
 every thread an' stick, my poor 
 wold kitchen clock, an' the little 
 copper kittle that mother had come 
 to her by name in a will from her 
 great aunt when she was but a 
 baby." 
 
 " Well. It has a hole in it," said 
 the practical Sempronia. 
 
 "An' zo he have," replied Mrs. 
 Upcott, greatly comforted. For it 
 was a comfort to talk to a person 
 so fearlessly self-reliant as Sem- 
 pronia, who, apparently unmoved by 
 troubles, rose and lowered the kettle 
 over the fire. 
 
 "Yes, Sempy, an' then there's your 
 Uncle Granger, he's quite zour wi' 
 Ebenezer, an' said to Mrs. Toop, who 
 told all Camel volk, that money was 
 a waste on Ebenezer, unless he was 
 whitewashed. An' he hasn't been 
 here for weeks, an' I'm sure I never 
 thought to have a coldness wi' Uncle 
 Granger. But what your vather'll 
 do, nobody knows. I'm sure I
 
 DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 don't, for he isn't zo young as he 
 once was ; and it's all through 
 Miller Biddlecombe putting him to 
 jail, though I can't think why, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 u Because he wanted his money." 
 
 " Well, an' perhaps he did, an' 
 yet he paid himself. But that 
 might ha' been respect for Ebenezer 
 after all. Though Ebenezer did 
 explain it and talk about law, but 
 zo many words do really goo to a 
 thing o' that zort, that I can't take 
 it in, like ; and Ruth there's never a 
 word to be got out o' edgeways." 
 
 " Where is Ruth ? " 
 
 " I suppwose she's about some- 
 where, Sempy." 
 
 " Ruth ! Ruth ! " Scmpronia 
 shouted out of the front door and 
 out of the back, and after a short 
 seai-ch found Ruth in the garden 
 picking fruit. 
 
 " Why, Ruth ! " 
 
 " Well, Sempy." 
 
 Sempronia had cared for Ruth's 
 youth, and loved her like a mother ; 
 a disciplinarian mother, who will 
 not stand nonsense or spoil her 
 child by economy in punishment or 
 unwise demonstrations of affection.
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 She kissed Ruth's cheek, a sharp 
 kiss like a postman's knock, which 
 does not wait for an answer. 
 
 " Why, how you're altered, child. 
 You're not half what you were," 
 she said, squeezing the girl's arm as 
 if to test the hardness* of her 
 biceps. 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right." 
 
 " Why, you're all eyes and check- 
 bones, child." 
 
 " I'm glad you've come. Perhaps 
 there'll be a little sense now ; and I 
 want to go out." 
 
 " You'd better go in," said Sem- 
 pronia, dictatorially. 
 
 " I'll tell you, when there's time," 
 continued Ruth. " I sha'n't stay 
 home I can't." 
 
 " Perhaps there won't be a 
 home." The rebuke was severe, 
 but Sempronia had no patience. 
 Like all persons deficient in imagi- 
 nation, she possessed less sympathy 
 than sense. "There, nonsense, 
 child. Of course there will. It 
 will only be one step lower. First 
 'twas Cadbury, then Lovington, and 
 now we shall rent a dairy." 
 
 " Father never will." 
 
 " But he must. He'll have to."
 
 DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 And it really seemed probable 
 when Sempronia said so. 
 
 They went in the kitchen to Mrs. 
 Upcott, where Sempronia not only 
 made tea, but largely consumed it. 
 The ravages of the sun had browned 
 her high cheek-bones and reddened 
 the summit of her nose. A pale 
 band of the natural yellow of her 
 skin across her forehead, another 
 around her neck, indicated territory 
 protected by her hat and kerchief, 
 and gave a piebald appearance to 
 her honest face. 
 
 " Yes," she said, "father may talk 
 as long as he likes, but he'll have to 
 take a dairy." 
 
 " Poor Ebenezer ! " 
 
 "That's all right, mother. But 
 he want's somebody to talk sense, 
 and tell him straight out he is poor 
 Ebenezer." 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure," said 
 Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " But I do," retorted Sempronia, 
 taking an old newspaper from the 
 table. " Why, here's the very thing. 
 John Biddlecombe, of Camel, wants 
 to let his dairy, unless it's too 
 late." 
 
 " Your father couldn't go to 'em,
 
 I Q2 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 Sempy. Ebenezer couldn't lower 
 hiszelf like that." 
 
 " Pack o' nonsense." 
 
 " And miller 'oodn't let it to un, 
 if he did." 
 
 " Father would have to pay off 
 the debt, of course, and so he ought. 
 Uncle Granger'd have to go bond 
 for the rent. I'd talk to him. 
 Biddlecombe will let it right enough 
 to get back his money. In instal- 
 ments, of course." 
 
 Sempronia's insight was so clear, 
 her style so lucid, that Mrs. Upcott 
 became easily convinced ; when her 
 husband presently returned she 
 greeted him with a smile which was 
 almost cheerful. 
 
 Having silently shaken hands 
 with his daughter, Upcott seated 
 himself by the window. His inter- 
 view had evidently been unsatis- 
 factory, and with his elbow resting 
 on the sill, his head on his clenched 
 fist, he looked almost dangerous to 
 interrupt. Perhaps he deemed 
 these women-folk unworthy of his 
 confidences. 
 
 "Well, father, and what's the 
 outcome ? " ventured Sempronia. 
 
 " There's no such thing as family
 
 DAUGHTER. 193 
 
 feeling. I say, there's no pride left. 
 Your Uncle Granger has insulted 
 me, Eliza ; I tell you, grossly in- 
 sulted me." 
 
 Mrs. Upcott began to weep. After 
 so many years it was sad to find 
 herself deceived in her Uncle 
 Granger. 
 
 " Well ? " said Sempronia. 
 
 " He recommended me to rent 
 a dairy. To rent Biddlecombe's 
 dairy. If I can make terms with 
 my creditors, forsooth, he'll guaran- 
 tee the rent. I suppose, I say, I 
 suppose he wants to see Ebenezer 
 Upcott with his head tucked into a 
 cow's belly. I told him I'd starve." 
 
 " You will," said Sempronia. 
 
 And Ebenezer seemed unprepared 
 for such terse attack. 
 
 " A pretty thing. I say, a very 
 pretty thing to see me hat in hand to 
 the man who has worked my ruin. 
 I never thought much of your Uncle 
 Granger, Eliza, and now I've proved 
 my thoughts right. He's a narrow- 
 minded man, and stingy too. I say, 
 and very stingy too. He's mean. 
 I say, mean." 
 
 A thousand kindnesses and little 
 homely attentions had endeared the 
 13
 
 194 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 old man to Ruth, and with more 
 valour than discretion she rushed 
 to his defence. 
 
 " He has a right to do what he 
 likes with his own, I should think." 
 
 Excited by Uncle Granger's re- 
 fusal, and perhaps astonished by 
 Sempronia's unexpected presence, 
 Ebenezer had taken no notice of 
 Ruth ; but at the sound of her 
 voice he rose from the window-sill 
 in the most unaccountable fury, a 
 fury irresponsible and capable of 
 wild violence. He did not threaten, 
 but anger seemed to overcome and 
 render him dumb. Sempronia in- 
 stinctively drew closer to her sister, 
 but Mrs. Upcott alone understood 
 what had happened, and threw her 
 arms around her husband, crying 
 
 " Don't, Ebenezer. It's only that 
 wicked old Toop. Don't. She's 
 your own daughter. Don't." 
 
 There was a moment terrible in 
 silence. Then through his clenched 
 teeth, he hissed 
 
 " I know what she is. She's the 
 talk of everybody a strumpet." 
 
 Ruth sprang to her feet, as if to 
 flee somewhere out of sight any- 
 where from such reproach. Then
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 '95 
 
 she would have fallen, but Sem- 
 pronia caught her. And that night 
 a light shone through the window 
 from which Ruth once kissed her 
 hand to George, and Sempronia sat 
 watching by the bedside, receiving 
 the girl's confidences and trying to 
 soothe her into sleep.
 
 XIV. 
 
 AND THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 |OME weeks elapsed, and 
 Ebenezer had come to 
 terms with his creditors. 
 The copper " kittle," dear 
 to the heart of Mrs. Up- 
 cott, was not sold, because 
 no one bid for it, and Uncle 
 Granger bought the kitchen clock 
 for a mere song. Uncle Granger 
 managed the whole affair with 
 shrewdness, acquired by the ex- 
 perience of more than three-score 
 years, and the Upcotts had moved 
 from the farmhouse to the cottage 
 on the other side of the road. 
 
 Implored by Mrs. Upcott, urged 
 by Sempronia, and constantly stared 
 at by Uncle Granger, Ebenezer had 
 at last consented, in despair, to 
 
 apply for Biddlecombe's dairy. He 
 
 196
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT S DAUGHTER. 197 
 
 was to go that afternoon, but a 
 heavy thunderstorm, with rain in 
 torrents, delayed him until evening. 
 So much the better, perhaps he 
 might not be seen. 
 
 The rain ceased, but heavy clouds 
 still hid the sky, hastening the ap- 
 proach of dusk. As he tramped 
 along the sodden road heavy with 
 mud, stooping beneath his troubles 
 like an old man, a group of return- 
 ing labourers, after the hearty man- 
 ner of those parts, bade him " good 
 night " ; but he did not answer 
 them. No longer important, he 
 became sullen, still feeling that the 
 world had treated him badly, and 
 blaming Uncle Granger for not 
 helping him to retain his position. 
 He was so broken down that 
 whether successful or a failure he 
 felt his errand to be quite hopeless. 
 
 Camel Street was empty ; the 
 air being chilly, village gossips had 
 forsaken the garden gate to gather 
 around the hearth. Loud laughter 
 came pealing from one of the 
 cottages as he passed, and he 
 quickened his pace as if it were 
 directed against himself. 
 
 As he entered the mill-yard,
 
 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 Biddlecombe was crossing from the 
 hatches, and waited peering at him 
 through the twilight. 
 
 " Ho ! Ebenezer Upcott. Tis 
 you, is it ? I shouldn't have 
 expected to zee you here. You've 
 bin a stranger this longish while 
 now. I can't say I be glad to see 
 'ee ; but I should be glad to see that 
 money that money you never 
 paid, but had the receipt vor. You 
 didn't get all your debts a-paid that 
 way by all accounts." 
 
 " I wanted a word on business, 
 Mr. Biddlecombe," said Upcott, 
 gloomily. 
 
 "To be sure I didn't place myself 
 on the level of friendship," sneered 
 Biddlecombe. " But you can walk 
 in." 
 
 With this ungracious welcome 
 the miller opened the door and 
 stood aside for Upcott to enter. In 
 the kitchen it was so dark that the 
 oak dresser was scarcely distinguish- 
 able from the wall, and without a 
 word the miller took his tinder-box 
 from the shelf and began to strike 
 a light. The process was long, for 
 his hand trembled with excitement, 
 and Ebenezer's heart sank. The
 
 DAUGHTER. 199 
 
 snicking of the flint and steel 
 sounded hard and vicious ; and 
 when at last Biddlecombe bent 
 down to blow the tinder into a 
 glow the gladness of mockery 
 seemed to gleam in his eyes. 
 
 " You can zit down," he said, 
 when at last a candle was lighted. 
 
 Ebenezer obeyed. 
 
 " You want to let your dairy. I 
 hear you want to let your dairy, 
 Mr. Biddlecombe." 
 
 " I did. But minds do change. 
 I don't hold every day alike. Why 
 you ha'n't bin able to play all one 
 tune, Mr. Upcott. You don't zing 
 so gay a zong as you did a few 
 years agone if my hearing is 
 good." 
 
 " I've had bad luck very bad 
 luck. What with the times and 
 troubles I'm a broken man. I say, 
 I'm a broken man." 
 
 Upcott's voice was low, and he 
 sat staring on the floor as if never 
 again to look the world in the face. 
 The repetition once so aggressive 
 now sounded pathetic, but the 
 miller gleamed on him with pitiless 
 eyes. Apart from personal hatred 
 Upcott was just the sort of fool he
 
 200 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 could not tolerate, and he enjoyed 
 a bitter satisfaction in trifling with 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Upcott, zur. You've 
 got your cares, if all that's told may 
 be believed. And zo many to 
 provide vor too. 'Tis a kindness to 
 think o' my wants at zuch a time. 
 I ought to be very much obliged to 
 'ee, I'm sure." 
 
 " I should be glad with the offer, 
 Mr. Biddlecombe " 
 
 " Why, 't'ud never suit 'ee, Mr. 
 Upcott, zur. 'T'ud never suit 'ee at 
 all. You an' your family couldn't 
 live out o' zuch a little place. Why, 
 there idden rooms enough in the 
 house. At best 'tis no more than 
 a cottage. You can't know it, Mr. 
 Upcott, zur. Why, you'd be packed 
 like pigs in a pen." 
 
 " Yes," said Ebenezer, taking 
 this trifling too seriously ; " 'tis a 
 come down ; but the poor can't 
 pick and choose. I say, the poor 
 can't be proud." 
 
 " No, no. 'Tis only a vool that's 
 proud wi' riches. But you haven't 
 a-paid your way zo fur, Mr. Upcott, 
 zur. 'Tis one o' my maxims rent 
 must be paid. A man can't well
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 distrain on nothen'. Not very well, 
 Mr. Upcott, zur." 
 
 " The rent would be secure. 
 That would be safe. Mr. Granger 
 will be bond for the rent. And I 
 should pay off the debt. I say, I 
 would pay back the debt." 
 
 In the face of this trivial opposi- 
 tion, Ebenezer spoke eagerly, feel- 
 ing that under no circumstances 
 could a more desirable tenant be 
 forthcoming. But the miller only 
 smiled pitilessly. Just when the 
 thing had seemed hopeless, here was 
 this man whom he hated dependent 
 for bread upon his favour. What 
 a fool he must be to believe the 
 granting of his request possible ! 
 And as the advantages of such an 
 arrangement, the security of Uncle 
 Granger and the payment of the 
 debt, became clear, the joy of refusal 
 became more intense ; for in pro- 
 portion to the sweet happiness of 
 disinterested kindness is the fierce 
 delight of disinterested hate. All 
 the bitterness, the disappointment, 
 the loneliness of a life-time were 
 concentrated in his reply. The 
 miller had been playing with his vic- 
 tim, and now he pounced upon him.
 
 202 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 " An' do you think I do want a 
 fool for a tenant, a fellow who let 
 plenty drough his fingers like corn 
 drough a sieve, a empty head wi' 
 more words than readship. You 
 tossed your head, Gentleman Upcott, 
 like one blade higher than t'others 
 in a field o' wheat, an' there come 
 a puff o' wind an' what be now ? 
 A straw. A thing o' nothing. 
 What be you an' your maidens to 
 me that I should wish 'ee well ? 
 Gentleman Upcott, did I say ? Glad 
 enough to be Dairyman Upcott, 
 zimmy-zoo. You'll find things 
 different now you be down. When 
 trust is a -tainted creditors do hover 
 round like flies. An' wants'll buzz 
 about your head want this an' 
 want that an' worrit, an' sting, 
 until you be zo lean as a hay-rake. 
 No. You've a-took things easy, but 
 when your bones be stiff you'll come 
 to a hard bed. An' I be glad o' it. 
 Shall I tell 'ee what you've done 
 you an' yours ? You've come be- 
 tween George an' me an' cut me off 
 a lonely man. An' you struck the 
 boy an' took his money. I've 
 thought o' it early an' late, morn 
 an' night ; and do 'ee think I'd have
 
 DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 'ee upon the land here to mind me o' 
 it day by day. Not if you paid the 
 rent ten times, an' were starving to 
 boot. As God's in Heaven, not if 
 you were dying, an' my own life 
 hung on the word." 
 
 His words came with increasing 
 rapidity and vehemence. With 
 this unexpected opportunity for 
 speech, the flood-gates of his passion 
 were suddenly opened, and the 
 pent-up malice, begotten of weeks 
 of brooding, poured forth. And 
 with the expression of this long- 
 accumulated force of contempt and 
 indignation his anger grew to a 
 climax and choked his utterance. 
 He glared upon Ebenezer, and re- 
 pressed an inclination to strike him. 
 
 Upcott rose. Yes, he was a 
 discredited and broken man. His 
 pride had proved a green, un- 
 seasoned staff, untrustworthy to 
 lean upon in the rough paths of 
 trouble. He had none of the self- 
 respect which carries a man through 
 difficulties. With bowed head and 
 without a word he turned slowly 
 towards the door. 
 
 "Aye. Take an' goo. Volk'll 
 call 'ee pauper one o' these days."
 
 204 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 These words ringing in his ears, 
 Ebenezer lifted the latch and sil- 
 ently let himself out. The miller's 
 attack not only formulated, but 
 proved the disrespect surrounding 
 him, and he slunk away like a 
 broken-spirited dog which has been 
 beaten. 
 
 In the yard he stood awhile, 
 confused and wonder-struck. The 
 moon had risen. The tempest had 
 passed over ; but it was the time 
 of equinox, and fragments of hurried 
 cloud were driving across the sky. 
 The idea of flight to avoid shame 
 was familiar to him, but he had 
 formed no plan nor thought of any 
 destination. No, he could not face 
 the smiles of former neighbours, nor 
 note the whispers in which men 
 lightly tell the tale of misfortune. 
 It was impossible to return to 
 Marston. But whither to go, or 
 what to do or hope for ? It seemed 
 that there was nowhere nothing. 
 
 He stood hesitating in the clear 
 moonlight. A jet of water bright 
 as silver was leaping over the head 
 of the hatch. Standing thus, per- 
 haps some one would see him. 
 Then, fancying he heard the sound
 
 DAUGHTER. 205 
 
 of footsteps on the road, with an 
 instinct towards secrecy, he stepped 
 back to hide himself in the gloomy 
 shadow of the mill. 
 
 When Upcott was gone Biddle- 
 combe sat by the hearth nursing 
 his anger. His triumph had been 
 unexpected and sweet. Yet now it 
 seemed so insufficient. There was 
 justice in the refusal to permit a 
 means of livelihood to the man he 
 loathed. The feeling that it stood 
 within his right a right well-earned 
 by years of work and saving seemed 
 to detract from the completeness of 
 his triumph. The miller kept re- 
 peating his words, amending and 
 strengthening them in imagination. 
 Taunts, sharp sayings which might 
 have wounded more deeply, un- 
 thought of at the time now crowded 
 into his brain, and their bitterness 
 increased his appetite for wrath. 
 And Upcott had sat there, silent as 
 a block, thus proving the inade- 
 quacy of the rebuke. 
 
 " The fool ! " he muttered. 
 
 Aye, the fool ! If a perception 
 of human folly and its consequences 
 could make a man wise, Miller
 
 206 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 Biddlecombe had learnt the whole 
 secret of happy life. But age had 
 brought only solitude, and prudence 
 was ending in futility. In a fever 
 of restless agitation he began to 
 walk about his room ; but the air 
 seemed close and oppressive, un- 
 equal to supply the vitality 
 demanded by his emotion and 
 excitement. It was a longing for 
 fresh air which induced him to 
 complete his interrupted errand to 
 the hatches. 
 
 Everything was still. For a 
 moment the wind had lulled, and 
 the moon shone calmly between the 
 ragged silver-edged clouds drifting 
 across the sky. The mill, the out- 
 line of the wheel, the pollard 
 willows were all in shadow, but the 
 light fell clearly on the wall and 
 the flat stones below the hatches. 
 The miller stood refreshing himself 
 in the cool night air. 
 
 Suddenly from the mill-pool 
 came a scarcely articulate cry, half 
 fear and half appeal, like the moan 
 of some animal in misery. He 
 listened. Were these fools again 
 playing him some prank ? Were 
 they stealing his poultry, or med-
 
 DAUGHTER. 207 
 
 dling with the stock in the ground 
 beyond the stream ? 
 
 Again the sound was faintly 
 repeated. 
 
 It came from the river, and Bid- 
 dlecombe, rushing forward, peered 
 into the deep pool. On the dark 
 water he could distinguish Upcott's 
 upturned face, pale and white in 
 the moonlight. One hand clutched 
 a plant, a mere weed growing from 
 a crevice in the wall, and without 
 crying for help the man held fiercely, 
 clinging in spite of himself to the 
 life he had sought to throw away. 
 
 Their eyes seemed to meet and 
 Upcott moaned. He did not speak, 
 perhaps scarcely saw the miller. 
 But Biddlecombe felt neither pity 
 nor surprise. The vision of a 
 drowning enemy had become so 
 familiar to his reverie that now the 
 fact scarcely seemed strange. Hatred 
 of Upcott and scorn for mankind, 
 that moment attained their con- 
 summation. He did not reflect, 
 but the possibilities of the situation 
 lay before him with wonderful 
 clearness. A touch, a mere ripple 
 of the water, and this man must 
 sink into the deep.
 
 208 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl'S 
 
 Yet he could not touch him. 
 With murder in his heart, still he 
 could not commit so definite an 
 act of murder. Then it flashed 
 upon him that if the hatch were 
 lifted the movement of the stream 
 must break that precarious hold 
 and Upcott would be drowned. The 
 water was high and rising rapidly 
 from the recent storm : the act 
 natural and wise under ordinary 
 circumstances. Who should say 
 that he had seen him ? The water 
 was his ; the hatch his ; and the man 
 had drowned himself. 
 
 At that moment a cloud obscured 
 the moon, and the face faded out of 
 sight. Perhaps it had sunk. He 
 could not tell. The doubt seemed 
 almost to satisfy his conscience, as 
 if even in the final judgment he 
 might escape on a technicality. In 
 a sort of frenzy he seized the crow- 
 bar. The act was almost involun- 
 tary, like the movement or word 
 which sometimes escapes one at 
 the moment of some sudden per- 
 ception. He raised the hatch to its 
 full height and the water went 
 rushing down in a torrent. 
 
 Then the moon shone again be-
 
 DAUGHTER. 2OQ 
 
 tween the clouds and he saw that 
 Upcott was not there. But the 
 sudden impulse had expended itself 
 and left him free to realise what he 
 had done. A strange fear seized on 
 his imagination, that this crime can 
 in no wise lie hidden. But it was 
 not fear which made him peer down 
 into the water searching in vain for 
 some trace of Upcott's whereabouts. 
 It was a wild hope that he might 
 yet save his soul from the burden 
 of his crime. It flashed upon his 
 mind that some belated villager 
 passing the back-stream, so long 
 parched with drought, might notice 
 the unexpected flood. The rising 
 water would not justify such whole- 
 sale waste, nor the miller's recent 
 carelessness agree with such fore- 
 thought. Besides it would prove 
 his presence there at that time. 
 But this vague fear of detection 
 was nothing to his wild instinct 
 towards the reversal of his crime, as 
 he withdrew the bar letting the 
 heavy hatch fall with a dull thud. 
 Then the pool settled into its usual 
 stillness and there was nothing to 
 be seen. 
 
 It was done beyond recall. The
 
 210 GENTLEMAN UPCOTl's 
 
 sense of this dazed him, and he stood 
 motionless hopeless helpless so 
 broken that his lips quivered, and he 
 cried. Beside the wall lay an ash 
 pole used for clearing rubbish from 
 the hatch. He took it up and groped 
 in the black water childishly 
 without sense or intention. Then 
 thoughts came rushing into his 
 brain in wild tumult. What should 
 he do ? Yet none had seen ! But 
 it would come to light it would 
 come to light. He must go in- 
 doors and wait to bed, or they 
 might suspect. No one came there 
 now, and it would be three days 
 
 before . Then he must find it 
 
 himself ; and nobody would dream. 
 But God knew ! And perhaps 
 Hannah ! He turned towards the 
 house. He would go in and lock 
 the door. Midway across the yard 
 he stopped. The Upcotts might 
 send by night to inquire if . 
 
 An irresistible fascination drew 
 him back. 
 
 He had looked over the wall, and 
 now he would cross to the other side 
 to see if he could find anything 
 there. Then he glanced into the 
 hatch hole before descending upon
 
 DAUGHTER. 2 i 1 
 
 the slippery stones, and lo ! straight 
 before him was the body of Upcott, 
 stranded on the sloping ledge whilst 
 passing through upon the flood. 
 The eyes wide open seemed to stare 
 at him : the lips were parted as if 
 in speech. The miller's anger had 
 all fled, leaving only a sense of 
 horror. Too late, he would have 
 given worlds to undo the deed. He 
 clambered down to Upcott's side, 
 and, overcoming his fear, took the 
 cold wet hand in his. Upcott was 
 dead. Dead ! The idea of death 
 had never before been brought 
 home to Biddlecombe. He lost 
 Hannah. She had been taken from 
 him. Thus he always thought and 
 spoke of her now, sometimes with 
 indignation against the power which 
 dispossessed him, never doubting 
 that she lived elsewhere, never 
 really free from a belief in her 
 presence. But this man seemed 
 dead in another way. Dead, like 
 an autumn leaf or anything which 
 has once lived but now is nothing. 
 It seemed that the same complete 
 destruction must some day inevitably 
 overtake himself. Then he felt 
 inexpressible remorse, and pity
 
 212 GENTLEMAN UPCOXr's DAUGHTER. 
 
 more pitiable because it could not 
 be expressed. He rubbed the help- 
 less hand, and half lifted half 
 dragged the lifeless body towards 
 the bank. Then he began to speak 
 as if in the hope of arousing it. 
 
 " It's all right, Mr. Upcott. Mr. 
 Upcott, it's all right. You mid go 
 in to once. What you say is right. 
 We've known each other for years. 
 There's no difference between us, 
 an' the luck'll change." 
 
 Then he wept at his own folly 
 for talking to a dead man. Nothing 
 could ever be right now. He 
 shuddered to see how limp was 
 Upcott's neck, and he placed the 
 head more easily and removed the 
 sodden neck-cloth. 
 
 It made him start to find the dead 
 man gasp. The dread of detection 
 was so strong that he feared Upcott 
 might arise to accuse him. Then 
 he thrust his hand beneath the 
 waistcoat and felt the fluttering 
 heart. Yes, Upcott lived. 
 
 " Help ! help ! He's still alive ! 
 Help ! " 
 
 He listened. Heard a door open 
 in the village. Then the neighbours 
 came rushing to his repeated cries 
 for " Help ! "
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE WAY OF PEACE. 
 
 O borrow a phrase from 
 Mrs. Toop it was "after 
 dark," but a young woman 
 was loitering on the cause- 
 way by Marston Corner. 
 Evidently expecting some- 
 one, sometimes she looked in one 
 direction and sometimes in the 
 other, as if doubtful whence he 
 would come. At last a young man 
 came hurrying along the Rimpton 
 road. The girl turned, and walked 
 slowly away. The man ran forward 
 with the impetuosity of love, over- 
 took her, and threw his arm around 
 her neck 
 
 " Ruth ! " he cried. 
 " George Biddlecombe ! It's me," 
 replied the young woman, with un- 
 called-for severity.
 
 214 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 Now one of the most embarrassing 
 things in life is to expect Ruth and 
 inadvertently embrace Sempronia, 
 and George was already a little out 
 of breath. " I'm very sorry, I'm 
 sure. I mean I thought I beg 
 your pardon. I hope no offence," 
 he blurted out. 
 
 Sempronia sternly admitted that 
 she supposed that there was no harm 
 done. 
 
 " Now, ilet us have no nonsense, 
 George Biddlecombe," she said. " I 
 came because Ruth couldn't. 
 Though I don't know that she 
 would if she could." 
 
 " I hadn't heard she was ill " 
 
 "Oh, she's all right! You 
 needn't worry yourself about that." 
 
 Sempronia, remembering she was 
 an Upcott, spoke quite snappishly. 
 She had heard the whole story from 
 Ruth ; how they loved, and met ; pro- 
 mised eternal fidelity, and afterwards 
 parted with the word "never" lying 
 as a gulf between them. This, on the 
 face of it, was ridiculous, but Sem- 
 pronia wished to ascertain whether 
 there was any sense beneath. After 
 her fashion she would inquire into 
 George's intentions, and either have it
 
 DAUGHTER. 215 
 
 on or have it off. That was her idea 
 no nonsense. So having received 
 one morning a letter, addressed, 
 Miss Uficott, but beginning, Dearest 
 Ruth, my angel, and imploring an 
 appointment ; she sent it back in- 
 scribed, Tuesday night at Marston 
 Corner, like a bill of exchange duly 
 accepted. 
 
 " Well, George Biddlecombe." 
 
 Now, making love by proxy is no 
 simple matter at the best of times, 
 and Sempronia's opinion of his suit 
 had never been expressed. 
 
 "Did Ruth ask you to come?" 
 he faltered. 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! I didn't ask her. 
 Let us hear what you've got to say 
 for yourself first," was the business- 
 like reply. 
 
 George was embarrassed, and 
 cleared his throat, and beat his 
 gaiter with his ground-ash stick ; so 
 Sempronia helped him. 
 
 "I suppose you've heard, George 
 Biddlecombe, that we've all been 
 sold up." 
 
 "Well; I heard " 
 
 " Oh, you needn't make any 
 bones about it. A fact's a fact, 
 and this one's as big as a bill-poster.
 
 2l6 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 Father's gone to ask for Miller 
 Biddlecombe's dairy. There's no 
 money to Ebenezer Upcott's 
 daughter, but you knew that before, 
 I should think." 
 
 " I never thought o' it. Never. 
 I'm getting on. I had a few poun' 
 o' my own, an' I bought a few 
 heifers worth the money, and zold 
 'em again the same day. You see 
 'tis all in zeeing when a thing is 
 worth the money, an' I'm keeping 
 my eye on a little mill, by the time 
 the man goes out, an' then " 
 
 Now this was practical, and ap- 
 pealed to Sempronia's matured 
 judgment. 
 
 * And you mean it ? " 
 
 " Wi' all my heart," said George 
 Biddlecombe, and it sounded so. 
 
 " Then why not come in like a 
 man and say so ? " 
 
 The argument was unanswerable : 
 they had now reached the cottage, 
 and Sempronia opened the door. 
 
 " Here's George Biddlecombe, 
 mother, come to ask for Ruth." 
 
 Mrs. Upcott had never felt so 
 flustered in all her life : there was 
 nothing for supper, and what would 
 Ebenezer say ? " Massy ! There,
 
 DAUGHTER. 217 
 
 Ruth, turn the wold cat out o' 
 little arm-chair. Will 'ee please to 
 zit down, Mr. Biddlecombe ? " 
 
 Then Sempronia called Mrs. Up- 
 cott away on some mysterious 
 business, and George and Ruth were 
 left alone. 
 
 It went to his heart to see her 
 looking so thin and pale ; and he 
 read the complete downfall of the 
 Upcott fortunes on the bare cottage 
 walls. But he had not vanity 
 enough to guess that love had given 
 her more pain than poverty ever 
 could ; and the importance of the 
 Upcott family still represented 
 something to his mind. 
 
 u Be still o 1 the same mind, 
 Ruth ? " he inquired in a whisper, 
 although he pressed her to his heart. 
 
 She only held his hand the closer. 
 
 " Then why not marry to once. 
 I'd make a home, no fear. You'd 
 never want, Ruth, if God should 
 gi'e me health but what's that ? " 
 
 There was quite a hubbub of 
 voices in the road before the cottage, 
 and Ruth quickly freed herself from 
 George's embrace. 
 
 "Is that father come home 
 angry ? " she asked, nervously.
 
 2l8 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 "Why 'tis quite a parliament," 
 said George, opening the door. 
 
 And so it was, for many of the 
 neighbours had pressed into the 
 passage where John Sprackman was 
 pouring forth his native English 
 with a volubility worthy of a great 
 occasion. 
 
 " That's right enough. He wer' 
 amwost zo dead as a nail. Doctor 
 zed vive seconds mwore an' missus 
 here'd 'a' bin a widder-'ooman. That's 
 right enough. Zo true as the light. 
 I chanced to be to Camel-town an' 
 zeed it. They hauled un out, an' 
 carr'ed un in, an' he looked more 
 like a drownded rot 'an a man. I 
 shall never zee the like again if I 
 do live to a hunderd. An' doctor 
 stratched un out, an' worked his 
 arms vor all the world like a pump- 
 han'le. An' doctor he bid 'em 
 stan' back. An' then he gasped ; 
 an' then he groaned. An' doctor 
 he scratched his head, an' let t'others 
 purnpy while he did look at un, 
 an' that did zim to bring un roun' 
 like. An' when they'd a-worked 
 the life back into un, like, doctor 
 blooded un wi' a little skiver 
 thing he took out o' his pocket,
 
 DAUGHTER. 2 19 
 
 like. An' then they put un to bed, 
 an' doctor he zet un to sleep zo 
 zound as a top. An' they zend 
 I to zay he wer' zo right as a 
 trivet, an' you werden' to think 
 nothen' at all about un, because he 
 mus'n't be disturved. An' Miller 
 Biddlecombe zot there like a man 
 a-mwost dazed, like, a zayen', 
 ' Jarge ! Jarge ! ' Zo he zed. ' Jarge ! 
 Jarge ! ' That's right enough. Zo 
 they've a zend to vetch young Jarge 
 in a hoss an' trap, by all accounts." 
 
 "But George is here," cried 
 Sempronia. 
 
 " Then there's a man outside'll 
 drive un over there-right. Or was, 
 I should say, for that's noo lie." 
 
 " Oh, my poor man ! My poor 
 Ebenezer ! Let me go, young 
 George," sobbed Mrs. Upcott. 
 
 " No. You stay, mother, and I'll 
 walk over," said Sempronia, firmly. 
 
 When George arrived at the mill, 
 he found a group of neighbours 
 standing around the door. They 
 had assisted at the recovery of 
 Ebenezer, and carried him upstairs ; 
 but then retired out of habitual 
 shyness of the miller. The village 
 sexton had undertaken to watch
 
 220 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT'S 
 
 Ebenezer through the night. The 
 people stood aside to let him pass, 
 and George, entering the kitchen, 
 found his father sitting in the familiar 
 chintz-covered chair. 
 
 " You be come to bide, George ? " 
 cried the old man eagerly, pointing 
 to the oak settle. 
 
 George took his accustomed place 
 on the opposite side of the hearth, 
 on which the fire was burning 
 brightly ; and they sat thus the 
 whole night through, for Ebenezer 
 occupied the miller's bed. 
 
 They did not talk much. At in- 
 tervals old Biddlecombe threw out 
 a remark ; but it was no attempt 
 at conversation only the old habit 
 of thinking aloud. 
 
 u Do rust the heart out lying out 
 o' use alone. 'Tis a dark house wi' 
 only one face 'ithin the walls. And 
 what good when we be gone ? " 
 
 Once he looked up from his 
 brooding, with the old shrewd look 
 but bereft of its malevolence. He 
 had evidently arranged the future 
 in his thoughts quite clearly. 
 
 " At nine pound a cow, an' let the 
 old debt goo. 'Tis noo debt what's 
 paid in law. An' we won't bother
 
 DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mr. Granger to be bond. 'Tis 
 better that way too, for the maid 
 could never manage a dairy. An' 
 I'll goo into the cottage and George 
 can have the mill. He can keep 
 her a lady upon what I've done. 
 She need never to soil her hands. 
 An' that vlat-vooted one, she they 
 do call Zempy, '11 be just the one 
 for the dairy. Let's all have peace 
 let's have peace, I say, or I shall 
 goo to the grave weak-witted." 
 
 Sempronia did not come until 
 nearly breakfast-time. A rapid cross- 
 examination of John Sprackman 
 satisfied her that there was nothing 
 to gain by traipsing two mile in the 
 dark ; so she stayed with her mother 
 and walked over in the early morning. 
 She cooked the bacon and set the 
 plates just as if she were quite at 
 home. Then the sexton came 
 down -stairs and said that Mr. 
 Upcott was awake and talked of 
 getting up. 
 
 "Zit down," said the miller, 
 quietly. " Please to zit down." 
 
 The sexton said he would just 
 walk over to look at the hatches. 
 
 And Isaac Toop also that morning 
 left the boy to drive back the cows
 
 222 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's 
 
 from milking, and walked across the 
 mill-yard to assist his imagination 
 by gazing upon the hatches. 
 
 Uncle Granger, too, who had heard 
 the news, drove over accompanied 
 by Mrs. Toop, and pulled the little 
 low cart up opposite the hatches. 
 
 Gradually the relatives dropped 
 in until there was quite a crowd. 
 
 Then Miller Biddlecombe went 
 out to door, bareheaded, and the 
 wind blew about his long grey hair. 
 
 " Now please to walk in. All 
 please to walk in an' welcome." 
 
 They didn't so much mind if they 
 did, and the kitchen became so 
 crowded that Sempy sent George 
 upstairs for the bedroom chairs. 
 
 " Ah ! Miller Biddlecombe," 
 laughed the sexton who was a sad 
 wag, " You've done I out of a job. 
 When the water's at the weir, 'tis 
 seven-foot-six by the wall, sheer and 
 smooth as a grave new-dug. All 
 Camel wi' cart-ropes would ha' been 
 nothing wi'out the miller's wit." 
 
 " Noo other man'd ha' thought 
 o' it till next day," said Toop, 
 solemnly scratching his crown to 
 promote speech. His words were 
 always inadequate but you never
 
 DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 could mistake his meaning. " And 
 I be terrible sorry that ever I 
 that ever I should ha' broke your 
 peck-measure, Mr. Biddlecombe." 
 
 " And glad am I, wi' all my 
 heart," chimed in Mrs. Toop with 
 a more pinched expression than 
 usual, u that all disagreeables should 
 appear to be over, and young George 
 back ; and here is Miss Ruth Upcott 
 as large as life driving up to the 
 door, and her mother too, which is 
 nothing but right." 
 
 A neighbour had lent Mrs. Upcott 
 a pony-cart, but her hands were all 
 of a tremble, and Ruth had been 
 forced to drive. 
 
 "Bless you, Miller Biddlecombe," 
 sobbed the poor woman, taking the 
 miller by both hands. " God bless 
 you, for your kindness to my good 
 man. I used to think you were 
 hard. But I were wrong ever to 
 harbour the thought. Of course 
 you wanted your money. I see that 
 now. Bless you for saving my 
 poor man's life But I'll go an' see 
 Ebenezer at once Poor Ebenezer ! 
 he must ha' been lost in the dark 
 or dazed in the moonlight." 
 
 The miller answered not a word
 
 224 GENTLEMAN UPCOTT's DAUGHTER. 
 
 but withdrew his hands and hobbled 
 back to his chintz-covered chair. 
 Sempronia gave up her seat at table 
 by George's side to Ruth ; and 
 somebody made room for Sempy by 
 the window, as it happened, next to 
 the sandy-headed Toop. 
 
 " Now shall I tell 'ee what I do 
 think ? " interposed Uncle Granger, 
 amidst the tumult of praise which 
 so greatly bewildered the miller. 
 
 The relatives all sat up and 
 Mrs. Toop crossed her arms. The 
 moment seemed to have come at 
 last when Uncle Granger was going 
 to give them something to hold 
 on by. 
 
 " Do, Uncle Granger ! " cried 
 Ruth. 
 
 " Do now, Mr. Granger," chimed 
 in the others. 
 
 " Then I do think," said Uncle 
 Granger slowly breaking the ex- 
 pectant silence. " That when a man 
 an' a maid do come to hold han's 
 under the table-cloth, 'tis a'most 
 time to put in the banns."
 
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