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.

    "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