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.”
