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 parish...

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?... 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 from...

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."

"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 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 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 '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'...

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." "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

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 will

do."

"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.

>

CHAPTER II

The village of Marlott lay amid the north- eastern undulations of the beautiful Vale

of Blakemore, or Blackmoor, aforesaid, an 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 still.

The banded ones were all dressed in white gowns--a gay survival from 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 clashed slightly as the sun lit up their figures against the green

hedges and creeper-laced house-fronts; for, though the whole troop wore white garments,

no two whites were alike among them.

Some approached pure blanching; some had a bluish pallor; some worn by the older

characters (which had possibly lain by folded for many a year) inclined to a