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.
âGood night tâee,â said the man with the basket.
âGood night, Sir John,â said the parson.
The pedestrian, after another pace or two, halted, and turned round.
âNow, sir, begging your pardon; we met last market-day on this road about this time, and I zaid âGood night,â and you made reply âGood night, Sir John,â as now.â
âI did,â said the parson.
âAnd once before thatânear a month ago.â
âI may have.â
âThen what might your meaning be in calling me âSir Johnâ these different times, when I be plain Jack Durbeyfield, the haggler?â1
The parson rode a step or two nearer.
âIt was only my whim,â he said; and, after a momentâs hesitation: âIt 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. Donât you really know, Durbeyfield, that you are the lineal representative of the ancient and knightly family of the dâUrbervilles, who derive their descent from Sir Pagan dâUrberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?â2
âNever heard it before, sir!â
âWell, itâs true. Throw up your chin a moment, so that I may catch the profile of your face better. Yes, thatâs the dâUrberville nose and chinâa 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 Secondâs time your forefather Brian was summoned to Westminster to attend the great Council there. You declined a little in Oliver Cromwellâs time, but to no serious extent, and in Charles the Secondâs 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.â
âYe donât say so!â
âIn short,â concluded the parson, decisively smacking his leg with his switch, âthereâs hardly such another family in England.â
âDaze5 my eyes, and isnât there?â said Durbeyfield. âAnd 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 parishâŠ. And how long hev this news about me been knowed, Paâson Tringham?â
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 dâUrberville family, he had observed Durbeyfieldâs 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.
âAt first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of information,â said he. âHowever, our impulses are too strong for our judgment sometimes. I thought you might perhaps know something of it all the while.â
âWell, I have heard once or twice, âtis true, that my family had seen better days afore they came to Blackmoor. But I took no notice oât, thinking it to mean that we had once kept two horses where we now keep only one. Iâve got a wold6 silver spoon, and a wold graven seal at home, too; but, Lord, whatâs a spoon and seal?⊠And to think that I and these noble dâUrbervilles were one flesh all the time. âTwas said that my grât-grandfer had secrets, and didnât care to talk of where he came fromâŠ. And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, if I may make so bold; I mean, where do we dâUrbervilles live?â
âYou donât live anywhere. You are extinctâas a county family.â
âThatâs bad.â
âYesâwhat the mendacious family chronicles call extinct in the male lineâthat is, gone downâgone under.â
âThen where do we lie?â
âAt Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill: rows and rows of you in your vaults, with your effigies under Purbeck-marble canopies.â
âAnd where be our family mansions and estates?â
âYou havenât any.â
âOh? No lands neither?â
âNone; though you once had âem 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.â
âAnd shall we ever come into our own again?â
âAhâthat I canât tell!â
âAnd what had I better do about it, sir?â asked Durbeyfield, after a pause.
âOhânothing, nothing; except chasten yourself with the thought of âhow are the mighty fallen.â7 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.â
âBut youâll turn back and have a quart of beer wiâ me on the strength oât, Paâson Tringham? Thereâs a very pretty brew in tap at The Pure Dropâthough, to be sure, not so good as at Rolliverâs.â
âNo, thank youânot this evening, Durbeyfield. Youâve had enough already.â 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.
âBoy, take up that basket! I want âee to go on an errand for me.â
The lath-like stripling frowned. âWho be you, then, John Durbeyfield, to order me about and call me âboyâ? You know my name as well as I know yours!â
âDo you, do you? Thatâs the secretâthatâs the secret! Now obey my orders, and take the message Iâm going to charge âee wiââŠ. Well, Fred, I donât mind telling you that the secret is that Iâm one of a noble raceâit has been just found out by me this present afternoon, P.M.â 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.
âSir John dâUrbervilleâthatâs who I am,â continued the prostrate man. âThat is if knights were baronetsâwhich they be. âTis recorded in history all about me. Dost know of such a place, lad, as Kingsbere-sub-Greenhill?â
âEes. Iâve been there to Greenhill Fair.â
âWell, under the church of that city there lieââ
â âTisnât a city, the place I mean; leastwise âtwaddnâ when I was thereââtwas a little one-eyed, blinking sort oâ place.â
âNever you mind the place, boy, thatâs not the question before us. Under the church of that there parish lie my ancestorsâhundreds of âemâin coats of mail and jewels, in grât lead coffins weighing tons and tons. Thereâs not a man in the county oâ South Wessex thatâs got grander and nobler skillentons8 in his family than I.â
âOh?â
âNow take up that basket, and goo on to Marlott, and when youâve come to The Pure Drop Inn, tell âem to send a horse and carriage to me immedâately, to carry me hwome. And in the bottom oâ the carriage they be to put a noggin oâ rum in a small bottle, and chalk it up to my account. And when youâve done that goo on to my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she neednât finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as Iâve news to tell her.â
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.
âHereâs for your labour, lad.â
This made a difference in the young manâs estimate of the position.
âYes, Sir John. Thank âee. Anything else I can do for âee, Sir John?â
âTell âem at hwome that I should like for supper,âwell, lambâs fry if they can get it; and if they canât, black-pot; and if they canât get that, well, chitterlings will do.â
âYes, Sir John.â
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.
âWhatâs that?â said Durbeyfield. âNot on account oâ I?â
â âTis the womenâs club-walking, Sir John. Why, your daâter is one oâ the members.â
âTo be sureâIâd quite forgot it in my thoughts of greater things! Well, vamp9 on to Marlott, will ye, and order that carriage, and maybe Iâll drive round and inspect the club.â
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 hoursâ journey from London.
It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of the hills that surround itâexcept 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 IIIâs 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 âclub-walking,â 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 menâs 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 womenâs 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 gownsâ...