Phase the First: The Maiden
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.
''Good night t'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; we 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
ancient and knightly family of the d'Urbervilles, who derive their descent from
Sir Pagan d'Urberville, that renowned knight who came from Normandy with William
the Conqueror, as appears by Battle Abbey Roll?''
''Never heard it before, sir!''
''Well it's true. Throw 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 conquest of Glamorganshire. Branches 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 your 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 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.''
''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 been knocking
about, year after year, from pillar to post, as if I was no more than the commonest
feller in the parishЕ.And how long hev 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
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 d'Urberville family, he had observed Durbeyfield's 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.
''At first I resolved not to disturb you with such a useless piece of information,''
said he. ''However, our impulses are too strong for our judgement 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 Blackmoor. 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 silver
spoon, and a wold graven seal at home, too; but, Lord, what's a spoon and seal?
Е And to think that I and these noble d'Urbervilles were one flesh all the time.
'Twas said that my gr't-granfer had secrets, and didn't care to talk of where he
came fromЕ. And where do we raise our smoke, now, parson, if I may make so bold;
I mean, where do we d'Urbervilles live?''
''You don't live anywhere. You are extinct-as a county family.''
''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 and rows of you in your 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 you family consisted
of numerous branches. In this county there was a seat of yours at Kingsbere, and
another at Sherton, and another in Millpond, and another at Lullstead, and another
''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 'how are the
mighty fallen.' 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.''
''But you'll turn back and have a quart of beer wi' me on the strength 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 enough already.'' 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.
''Boy, take up that basket! I want 'ee to go on an errand for me.''
The lath-like stripling frowned. ''Who be you, then, John Durbeyfield, to order
me about and call me 'boy?' You know my name as well as I know yours!''
''Do you, do you? That's the secret-that's the secret! Now obey my orders, and
take the message I'm going to charge 'ee wi'Е. 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
me this present afternoon, P.M.'' 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.
''Sir John d'Urberville-that's who I am,'' continued the prostrate 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-sub-Greenhill?''
''Ees, I've been there to Greenhill Fair.''
''Well, under the church of that city there lie-''
'''Tisn't a city, the place I mean; leastwise 'twaddn' when I was there-'twas
a little one-eyed, blinking sort o'place.''
''Never you mind the place, boy, that's not the question 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.''
''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 hwome. 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 when you've done that goo on to
my house with the basket, and tell my wife to put away that washing, because she
needn't finish it, and wait till I come hwome, as I've news to tell her.''
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.
''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 they can't, black-pot; and if they can't get that, well chitterlings
''Yes, Sir John.''
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.
''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 forgot 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 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.
The village of Marlott lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale
of Blakemore or Blackmoor aforesaid, and engirdled and secluded region, for the
most part untrodden as yet by tourist or landscape-painter, though within a four
hours' journey from London.
It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summits of
the hills that 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 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 III's 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. 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 ''club-walking,'' 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 men's 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 women's
clubs as remained (if any other did) or 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