Chapter Chapter 1 · Chapter I A Discovery

. Chapter I A Discovery

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 your 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.