PHASE THE FIRST THE MAIDEN
I
ON AN EVENING in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott, 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 smart 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 being 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 mare, who, as he rode, hummed a wandering tune.
āGood night tāee,ā said the man with the basket.
āGood night, Sir John,ā said the parson.
The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.
āNow, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I zaid āGood night,ā and you made reply āGood night, Sir John,ā as now.ā
āI did,ā said the parson.
āAnd once before thatānear a month ago.ā
āI may have.ā
āThen what might your meaning be in calling me āSir Johnā these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?ā1
The parson rode a step or two nearer.
āIt was only my whim,ā he said; and, after a momentās hesitation: āIt 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 Stag-foot Lane. Donāt you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the dāUrbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan dāUrberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?ā2
āNever heard it before, sir!ā
āWell, itās true. Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of your face better. Yes, thatās the dāUrberville nose and chināa little debased. Your ancestor was one of the twelve knights who assisted the Lord of Estremavilla in Normandy in his conquest of Glamorganshire. Branches of your family held manors over all this part of England; their names appear in the Pipe Rolls3 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 Secondās time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there. You declined a little in Oliver Cromwellās time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Secondās reign you were made Knights of the Royal Oak for your loyalty.4 Aye, there have been generations of Sir Johns among you, and if knighthood were hereditary, like a baronetcy, as it practically was in old times, when men were knighted from father to son, you would be Sir John now.ā
āYe donāt say so!ā
āIn short,ā concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, āthereās hardly such another family in England.ā
āDaze5 my eyes, and isnāt there?ā said Durbeyfield. āAnd here have I been knocking about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the commonest feller in the parishā¦. And how long hev this news about me been knowed, Paāson Tringham?ā
The clergyman explained that, as far as he was aware, it had quite died out of knowledge, and could hardly 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 the dāUrberville family, he had observed Durbeyfieldās name on his waggon, and had thereupon been led to make inquiries about his father and grandfather till he had no doubt on the subject.
āAt first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of information,ā said he. āHowever, our impulses are too strong for our judgment sometimes. I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while.ā
āWell, I have heard once or twice, ātis true, that my family had seen better days afore they came to Blackmoor. But I took no notice oāt, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one. Iāve got a wold6 silver spoon, and a wold graven seal at home, too; but, Lord, whatās a spoon and seal?ā¦ And to think that I and these noble dāUrbervilles were one flesh all the time. āTwas said that my grāt-grandfer had secrets, and didnāt care to talk of where he came fromā¦. And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we dāUrbervilles live?ā
āYou donāt live anywhere. You are extinctāas a county family.ā
āThatās bad.ā
āYesāwhat the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male lineāthat is, gone downāgone under.ā
āThen where do we lie?ā
āAt Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults, with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.ā
āAnd where be our family mansions and estates?ā
āYou havenāt any.ā
āOh? No lands neither?ā
āNone; though you once had āem in abundance, as I said, for your family consisted of numerous branches. In this county there was a seat of yours at Kingsbere, and another at Sherton, and another at Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another at Wellbridge.ā
āAnd shall we ever come into our own again?ā
āAhāthat I canāt tell!ā
āAnd what had I better do about it, sir?ā asked Durbeyfield, after a pause.
āOhānothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of āhow are the mighty fallen.ā7 It is a fact of some interest to the local historian and genealogist, nothing more. There are several families among the cottagers of this county of almost equal lustre. Good night.ā
āBut youāll turn back and have a quart of beer wiā me on the strength oāt, Paāson Tringham? Thereās a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Dropāthough, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliverās.ā
āNo, thank youānot this evening, Durbeyfield. Youāve had enough already.ā Concluding thus the parson rode on his way, with doubts as to his discretion in retailing this curious bit of lore.
When he was gone Durbeyfield walked a few steps in a profound reverie, and then sat down upon the grassy bank by the roadside, depositing his basket before him. In a few minutes a youth appeared in the distance, walking in the same direction as that which had been pursued by Durbeyfield. The latter, on seeing him, held up his hand, and the lad quickened his pace and came near.
āBoy, take up that basket! I want āee to go on an errand for me.ā
The lath-like stripling frowned. āWho be you, then, John Durbeyfield, to order me about and call me āboyā? You know my name as well as I know yours!ā
āDo you, do you? Thatās the secretāthatās the secret! Now obey my orders, and take the message Iām going to charge āee wiāā¦. Well, Fred, I donāt mind telling you that the secret is that Iām one of a noble raceāit has been just found out by me this present afternoon, P.M.ā And as he made the announcement, Durbeyfield, declining from his sitting position, luxuriously stretched himself out upon the bank among the daisies.
The lad stood before Durbeyfield, and contemplated his length from crown to toe.
āSir John dāUrbervilleāthatās who I am,ā continued the prostrate man. āThat is if knights were baronetsāwhich they be. āTis recorded in history all about me. Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?ā
āEes. Iāve been there to Greenhill Fair.ā
āWell, under the church of that city there lieāā
ā āTisnāt a city, the place I mean; leastwise ātwaddnā when I was thereāātwas a little one-eyed, blinking sort oā place.ā
āNever you mind the place, boy, thatās not the question before us. Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestorsāhundreds of āemāin coats of mail and jewels, in grāt lead coffins weighing tons and tons. Thereās not a man in the county oā South Wessex thatās got grander and nobler skillentons8 in his family than I.ā
āOh?ā
āNow take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when youāve come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell āem to send a horse and carriage to me immedāately, to carry me hwome. And in the bottom oā the carriage they be to put a noggin oā rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up to my account. And when youāve done that goo on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she neednāt finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as Iāve news to tell her.ā
As the lad stood in a dubious attitude, Durbeyfield put his hand in his pocket, and produced a shilling, one of the chronically few that he possessed.
āHereās for your labour, lad.ā
This made a difference in the young manās estimate of the position.
āYes, Sir John. Thank āee. Anything else I can do for āee, Sir John?ā
āTell āem at hwome that I should like for supper,āwell, lambās fry if they can get it; and if they canāt, black-pot; and if they canāt get that, well, chitterlings will do.ā
āYes, Sir John.ā
The boy took up the basket, and as he set out the notes of a brass band were heard from the direction of the village.
āWhatās that?ā said Durbeyfield. āNot on account oā I?ā
ā āTis the womenās club-walking, Sir John. Why, your daāter is one oā the members.ā
āTo be sureāIād quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things! Well, vamp9 on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and maybe Iāll drive round and inspect the club.ā
The lad departed, and Durbeyfield 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.
II
THE VILLAGE OF Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale of Blakemore or Black-moor aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four hoursā journey from London.
It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround itāexcept 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 country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down 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 more delicate scale; the 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 tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight 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 IIIās reign, in which the killing by a certain Thomas de la Lynd of a beautiful white hart which the king had run down and spared, was made the occasion of a heavy fine.1 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 oak copses and irregular belts of timber that yet survive upon its slopes, and the hollow-trunked trees that shade so many of its pastures.
The forests have departed, but some old customs of their shades remain. Many, however, linger only in a metamorphosed or disguised form. The May-Day dance, for instance, was to be discerned on the afternoon under notice, in the guise of the club revel, or āclub-walking,ā as it was there called.
It was an interesting event to the younger inhabitants of Marlott, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony. Its singularity lay less in the retention of a custom of walking in procession and dancing on each anniversary than in the members being solely women. In menās clubs such celebrations were, though expiring, less uncommon; but either the natural shyness of the softer sex, or a sarcastic attitude on the part of male relatives, had denuded such womenās clubs as remained (if any other did) of this their glory and consummation. The club of Marlott alone lived to uphold the local Cerealia.2 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 gownsā...