1
On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walkinghomeward from Shaston to the village of Mar lott, in the adjoining Vale of Blakemore or Blackmoor.The pair of legs that carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined him somewhat to the left of a straight line.He occasionally gave a s mart nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of anything in particular.An empty egg-basket was slung upon his arm, the nap of his hat was ruffled, a patch b eing quite worn away at its brim where his thumb came in taking it off.Presently he was met by an elderly parson astride on a gray m are, who, as he r ode, hummed a wandering tune.
“Good nightt'ee, ”said the man with the basket.
“Good night, Sir John, ”said the parson.
The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.
“Now, sir, begging your pardon; w e met last market-day on this road about this time, and I said 'Good night, 'and you made reply‘Good night, Sir John, 'as now.”
“I did, ”said the parson.
“And once before that—near a month ago.”
“I may have.”
“Then what might your meaning be in calling me‘Sir John'these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?”
The parson rode a step or two nearer.
“It was only my whim, ”he said; and, after a moment's hesitation：“It was on account of a discovery I made some little time ago, whilst I was hunting up pedigrees for the new county history.I am Parson Tringham, the antiquary, of Stagfoot Lane.Don't you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the anc ient and kni ghtly fa mily of the d'Urbervilles, w ho derive their descent fr om Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that reno wned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?”
“Never heard it before, sir！”
“Well, it's true.Th row up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of your face better.Yes, that's the d'Urberville nose and chin—a little debased.Your ancestor was one of the twelve knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his co nquest of Glamorganshire.Bran ches of your family held manors over all this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls in the time of King Stephen.In the reign of King John one of them was rich enough to give a manor to the Knights Hospitallers; and in Edward the Second's time y our forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there.You declined a little in Oliver Cromwell's time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Second's reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your loyalty.Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among you, and if kn ighthood were hered itary, like a b aronetcy, as it practically was in old times, when men were knig hted from father to son, you would be Sir John now.”
“Ye don't say so！”
“In short, ”concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, “there's hardly such another family in England.”
“Daze my eyes, and isn't there?”said Durbeyfield.“And here have I be en knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the commonest feller in the parish……And how long h ev this news about me been knowed, Pa'son Tringham?”
The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite died out of knowled ge, and co uld hard ly be said to be known at all.His own investigations had begun on a day in the preceding spring when, having been engaged in tracing the vicissitudes of thed'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's name on his waggon, and had th ereupon been led to make inquiries about his father and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.
“At first I resolved no t to disturb you with such a useless piece o f information, ”said he.“However, our impulses are too strong for our judgment sometimes.I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while.”
“Well, I have heard once or twice, 'tis true, that my family had seen better days afore they came to Black moor.But I took no notice o't, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one.I've got a wold silv er spoon, and a wold graven seal at ho me, too; but, Lord, what's aspoon and s eal……And to think that I and th ese noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time.'Twas said that my gr't-grandfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk of w here he came fro m……And where do we raise our smoke, no w, parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do wed'Urbervilles live?”
“You don't live anywhere.You are extinct—as a county family.”
“That's bad.”
“Yes—what the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male line—that is, gone down—gone under.”
“Then where do we lie?”
“At Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill：rows an d rows of you in y our vaults, with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.”
“And where be our family mansions and estates?”
“You haven't any.”
“Oh?No lands neither?”
“None; though you once had'em in abundance, as I said, for y our family consisted of num erous branches.In this county there was a seat of y ours at Kingsbere, and another at Sher ton, and another at Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.”
“And shall we ever come into our own again?”
“Ah—that I can't tell！”
“And what had I better do about it, sir?”asked Durbeyfield, after a pause.
“Oh—nothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of‘howare the mighty fallen.'It is a fact of some interest to the local historian and genealogist, nothing more.There are several f amilies among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre.Good night.”
“But you'll turn back and have a quar t of beer wi'me on the s trength o't, Pa'son Tringham?There's a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Drop—though, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliver's.”
“No, thank you—not this evening, Durbeyfield.You've had enoug h already.”Concluding thus the parson rode on h is way, with doubts as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.
When he was gone Durb eyfield walked a few steps in a profound reverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside, d epositing his basketbefore him.In a few min utes a y outh appeared in the distan ce, walking in the same direction as that w hich had been pursued b y Durbeyfield.The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand, and the lad quickened his pace and came near.
“Boy, take up that basket！I want'ee to go on an errand for me.”
The lath-like stripling fro wned.“Who be y ou, then, John Durbey field, to order me about and call me‘boy'?You know my name as well as I k now yours！”
“Do y ou, do y ou?That's the secr et—that's t he se cret！Now obe y my orders, and take the message I'm going to charge'ee wi'……Well, Fred, I don't mind telling you that the secret is that I'm one of a noble race—it has been just found out by m e this present afternoon, P.M.”And as he made th e announcement, Durbey field, d eclining fro m his sitting pos ition, luxur iously stretched himself out upon the bank among the daisies.
The lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from crown to toe.
“Sir John d'Urberville—that's who I am, ”con tinued th e pros trate man.“That is if knights were baronets—which they be.'Tis recorded in history all about me.Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-subGreenhill?”
“Ees.I've been there to Greenhill Fair.”
“Well, under the church of that city there lie—”
“'Tisn't a city, the pla ce I mean; le astwise'twaddn'when I was there—'twas a little one-eyed, blinking sort o'place.”
“Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the qu estion before us.Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestors—hundreds of'em—in coats of mail and jewels, in gr't lead coffins weighing tons and tons.There's not a man in the county o'South-Wessex that's got grander and nobler skillentons in his family than I.”
“Oh?”
“Now take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when you've come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell'em to send a horse and carriage to me immed'ately, to carry me home.And in the bottom o'the carriage, they be to put a noggin o'rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up to my account.And wh en you've done that go o on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away thatwashing, because she needn't finish it, and wait till I come home, as I've news to tell her.”
As the lad s tood in a du bious attitu de, Durbey field pu t h is h and in h is pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that he possessed.
“Here's for your labour, lad.”
This made a difference in the young man's estimate of the position.
“Yes, Sir John.Thank'ee.Anything else I can do for'ee, Sir John?”
“Tell'em at hwome that I should like for supper, —well, lamb's fry if they can get it; and if th ey can't, black-pot; a nd i f they can't get tha t, well, chitterlings will do.”
“Yes, Sir John.”
The boy took up the basket, and as he set ou t the notes of a brass band were heard from the direction of the village.
“What's that?”said Durbeyfield.“Not on account o'I?”
“'Tis the women's club-walking, Sir John.Why, your da'ter is one o'the members.”
“To be sure—I'd quite f orgot it in my thoughts of greater things！Well, vamp on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and maybe I'll drive round and inspect the club.”
The lad dep arted, and Du rbeyfield lay waiting on the grass and daisies in the evening sun.Not a soul passed that way for a long while, and the faint notes of the band were the only human sounds audible within the rim of blue hills.
2
The village of Mar lott lay amid the nor th-eastern undulations of thebeautiful V ale of Blak emore or Black moor af oresaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for themost p art untr odden as y et by tourist orlandscape-painter, though within a four hours'journey from London.
It is a vale whose acq uaintance is best made by viewing it fro m the summits of the hills th at surround it—except perhaps during the droughts of summer.An unguided ramble into its recesses in bad weather is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, tortuous, and miry ways.
This fertile and sheltered tract of co untry, in which th e field s are never brown and the springs n ever dry, is bounded on the south by the bold ch alk ridge that embraces the pro minences of H ambledon Hill, Bulb arrow, NettlecombeTout, Dogbu ry, High Stoy, and Bubb Down.The traveller fro m the coast, who, after plo dding northward for a score of miles over calcar eous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delig hted to behold, extended lik e a map beneath h im, a country diff ering abso lutely fro m th at which h e has passed through.Behin d him the hills are open, the sun blazes dow n upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless.Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and m ore delicate scale; th e fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass.The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tin ged w ith azure that what artists call th e middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest u ltramarine.Ar able lands are few an d limited; with but s light exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major.Such is the Vale of Blackmoor.
The district is of historic, no less than of topographical interest.The Vale was known in former times as the Forest of White Hart, from a curious legend of King Henry III.'s reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beau tiful white har t which the king had run d own and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine.In those days, and till comparatively recent times, the country was densely wooded.Even now, traces of its earlier condition are to be found in the old o ak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollowtrunked trees that shade so many of its pastures.
The forests have departed, but so me old customs of their shad es remain.Many, howe ver, ling er only in a metamorpho sed or disguised for m.The May-Day dance, f or instance, was to be discern ed on th e afternoon un der notice, in the guise of the club revel, or“club-walking, ”as it was there called.
It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott though its real interest was not o bserved by the p articipators in th e cere mony.Its singularity lay less in th e retention o f a custo m of walking in procession and dancing on each a nniversary than in the members being so lely wom en.In men's clubs such celeb rations were, though exp iring, less u ncommon; b ut either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such women's clubs as remained（if any other did）of this their glory and consummation.The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia.It had walked for hundreds of years, if not as benefit-club, as votive sisterhood of some sort; and it walked still.
The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns—a gay survival fro m Old Style days, when cheerfulness and May-time were synonyms—days before the habit of taking long views had reduced emotions to a monotonous average.Their first exhibition of themselves was in a processional march of two and two round the parish.Ideal and real clash ed slightly as the sun lit up their figu resagainst the green hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white gar ments, no two wh ites wer e alik e amo ng th em.Some approached pure blan ching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older characters（which had possibly lain by folded fo r many a y ear）inclined to a cadaverous tint, and to a Georgian style.
In addition to the dis tinction of a white frock, every wom an and gir l carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand, and in her left a bunch of white flowers.The peeling of the former, and the selection of the latter, h ad been an operation of personal care.
There were a few middle-aged and even elderly women in the train, the ir silver-wiry hair and wr inkled faces, scourged b y tim e and trouble, h aving almost a gro tesque, certainly a path etic, appearance in such a jaunty situation.In a true view, perhaps, there was more to be gathered and told of each anxious and experienced one, to whom the years were drawing nigh when she sh ould say, “I have no pleasur e in th em, ”than of her juvenile comrades.But let the elder be passed over here for those under whose bodices the life throbbed quick and warm.
The young girls formed, indeed, the majority of the band, and their head s of luxuriant hair reflected in the sun shine every tone of gold, and black, and brown.So me had b eautiful ey es, oth ers a beautif ul nose, others a beautif ul mouth and figure; few, if any, had all.A difficulty of arranging their lips in this crude exposure to pub lic scrutiny, an inab ility to balan ce their heads, an d to dissociate self-conscious ness fro m their f eatures, was appar ent in th em, and showed that they were genuine country girls, unaccustomed to many eyes.
And as each and all of them were warmed without by the sun, so each had a private little sun f or her soul to bask in; some dream, some affection, some hobby, at least some remote and distant hope which, though perhaps starving to nothing, still lived on, as hopes will.Thus they were all cheerful, and many of them merry.
They came round by The Pure Prop Inn, and were turning o ut of the high road to pass through a wicket-gate into the meadows, when one of the wo men said—
“The Lord-a-Lord！Why, Tess Durbey field, if th ere isn't thy father r idinghwome in a carriage！”
A young member of the band turned her head at the exclamation.She was a fine and handsome girl—not handsomer than some others, possibly—but her mobile peony mouth and large inno cent eyes added eloquence to colour and shape.She wore a red r ibbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of su ch a pronounced adorn ment.As she loo ked round Durbeyfield was seen moving along the road in a chaise belonging to The Pure Drop, driven by a frizzle-head ed brawny dam sel with her gown-sleeves rolled above her elbo ws.This was the cheerf ul serv ant of tha t establishment, who, in her part of fact otum, turned groom and ostler at times.Durbeyfield, leaning back, and w ith his eyes closed luxu riously, was waving his hand above his head, and singing in a slow recitative—
“I've-got-a-gr't-family-vault-at-Kingsbere—and knighted forefathers-in-lead-coffins-there！”
The clubbists tittered, except the girl called Tess—in whom a slow hea t seemed to rise at the sen se that he r father was making himself foolish in their eyes.
“He's tired, that's all, ”she said h astily, “and he has got a lift ho me, because our own horse has to rest today.”
“Bless thy si mplicity, Tess, ”sai d her companions.“He's got his market-nitch.Haw-haw！”
“Look here; I won't walk ano ther inch with y ou, if y ou say any jokes about him！”Tess cried, and the colour upon her cheeks spread over her face and neck.In a moment her ey es grew m oist, and her glance drooped to the ground.Perceiving that they had really pained her they said no more, and order again prev ailed.Tess's pride would not allow h er to turn her head again, to learn what her father's meaning was, if he had any; and thus she moved on with the whole b ody to the enclosure wh ere there was to be dan cing on the gr een.By the time the spot was reached she had recovered her equanimity, and tapped her neighbour with her wand and talked as usual.
Tess Durbey fied at th is time of h er life wa s a mere ve ssel of em otion untinctured by experience.The dialect was on her tongue to so me extent, despite the village school：the characteristic intonation of that dialect for thisdistrict being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable UR, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in hu man speech.Th e pouted-up d eep red mouth to which th is syllable was native had hardly as y et settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word.
Phases of her childho od lurked in h er aspect still.As she wa lked a long today, for all h er bouncing handsome womanliness, you could so metimes see her twelfth year in her cheeks, or her ninth sparkle from her eyes; and even her fifth would flit over the curves of her mouth now and then.
Yet few knew, and still fewer considered this.A small minority, mainly strangers, w ould look at her in casu ally passing by, and grow m omentarily fascinated by her freshness, and wonder if they would ever see her again; but to almost everybody she was a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more.
Nothing was seen or hear d further of Durbeyfield in his triumphal chariot under the co nduct o f th e ostleress, and the club having entered th e allo tted space, dancing began.As there were no men in the company the girls danced at first with each other, but when the h our for th e close of labour drew on, the masculine inhabitants of the village, to gether with other idlers and pedestrians, gathered round the spot, and appeared inclined to negotiate for a partner.
Among th ese on-lookers were three y oung men of a sup erior class, carrying small knapsacks strapped to their shoulders, and stout sticks in their hands.Their general likeness to each other, and their consecutive ages, wo uld almost have suggested that they might be, what in fact they were, brothers.The eldest wore th e whi te t ie, high waistcoat, a nd th in-brimmed ha t of th e regulation curate; the second was the normal undergraduate; the appearance of the third and youngest would hardly have been sufficient to characterize him; there was an uncribbed, uncabined aspect in his eyes and attir e, implying that he had hardly as yet found the entrance to his professional groove.That he was a desultory tentative student of something and everything might only have been predicted of him.
These three brethr en to ld casu al acquaintance that they were spendi ng their Whitsun holidays in a walking tour through the Vale of Blackmoor, their course being southwesterly from the town of Shaston on the north-east.
They leant over the gate by the highway, and inquired as to the meaning of the dance and the white-frock ed maids.The two elder of the brothers wer e plainly not intending to linger more than a moment, but the spectacle of a bevy of girls dancing without male partners seemed to amuse the third, and make him in no hurry to move on.He unstrapped his kn apsack, put it, with his stick, on the hedge-bank, and opened the gate.
“What are you going to do, Angel?”asked the eldest.
“I am inclined to go and have a fling with them.Why not all of us—just for a minute or two—it will not detain us long?”
“No—no; nonsense！”said the f irst, “Dancing in public with a troop of country hoydens—suppose we should be seen！Co me along, or it will b e dark before we get to Stour castle, and there's no place we can sleep at nearer than that; besides, we must get through another ch apter of A Counterb last to Agnosticism before we turn in, now I have taken the trouble to bring the book.”
“All right—I'll overtake you and Cuthbert in five minutes; don't stop; I give my word that I will, Felix.”
The two eld er reluctantly left him and walked o n, taking their brother's knapsack to relieve him in following, and the youngest entered the field.
“This is a th ousand pities, ”he said gallantly, to two or thr ee of the gir ls nearest h im, as soon as the re was a paus e in the dan ce.“Where are your partners, my dears?”
“They've not left off wor k yet, ”answered one of the boldest.“They'll be here by and by.Till then, will you be one, sir?”
“Certainly.But what's one among so many！”
“Better than none.'Tis melancholy work facing and footing it to one of your own sort, and no clipsing and colling at all.Now, pick and choose.”
“Ssh—don't be so for'ard！”said a shyer girl.
