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On an evening in late May a middle-aged man was walking homeward from Meryton to the house of Longbourne in the County of Hertfordshire or Herefordshire. The pair of legs that carried him were rickety and his shoulder were slightly slumped from what appeared to be extensive perusal of books in bad lighting, but he walked with a simple, plodding movement, typical of a struggling yet brilliant man who was forced to spend his days peddling to keep his wife and children in something resembling style.
He was presently met by a toady and slimy parson (read Mr. Collins) astride a gray mare, who hummed as he rode along.
"Good evening parson" said the man.
"Good night Sir Thomas," said the parson obsequiously.
The man, after a pace or two, halted and turned round.
"What was that you said parson?"
"Good night Sir Thomas" the parson replied with a silly smile.
"I thought so, but in these past months you have called my nothing my plain Thomas Durbeyfield"
"Yes, but I have recently been going over my volumes, as I am an admirer of history, and have discovered that you are the last descendent of the great noble family of D'urberville, not so noble a family as my patroness', Lady DeBourg, nor her nephew, Darcy Clare and his relations, but certainly one of the county's more reputable families." finished the parson with a bow.
"I have never heard anything of the kind, sir," replied a stunned Thomas.
"I have it on good authority, direct from my volumes. Let me examine your profile -- I do not profess to be a great reader of features, I flatter myself, but I do spy the D'urberville nose and chin in your face. If you seek verification of your relationship, there is a noble family nearby related to you. Why don't you seek kinship from them?"
"Thank you parson. I shall consider it."
Thomas Durbeyfield mulled over the situation briefly before deciding to do just as the parson suggested. "Surely a right noble family would jump at the chance to assist poor relations, and I know LADY Fanny Durbeyfield - Oh, I suppose it is D'urberville not -- would love to tell all the neighbours about our true heritage."
With this thought Thomas, or Sir Thomas as he now thought of himself, made his way home, past the village green where his eldest daughters were at play for Mayday.
The village of Meryton lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the beautiful country of Hertfordshire, or Hertfordshire as aforesaid, an engirdled and secluded region, for the most part untridden as yet by tourist (as most of them preferred the lake districts, Derbyshire, etc.) or landscape-painter, though within a few hours' journey from London..
Most of the old customs have died out from the villages in and around Hertfordshire, but in Meryton at least one gaiety was still revived each year, and that was the Mayday celebration.
This Mayday, when we met Sir Thomas Bennett he was just passing by the green where his daughters frolicked joyfully in the spring air.
It was an interesting even to the younger inhabitants of Meryton, though its real interest was not observed by the participators in the ceremony. The women kept the traditions and the custom alive, and finally were able to partake of the celebration.
The "banded ones" were all dressed in white and each girl carried in her right hand a peeled willow wand and in her left, a bunch of white flowers to symbolize her purity.
Some of the girls had beautiful lips, others a beautiful nose, others a beautiful color and figure: few, if any, had all.
As they danced happily on the green, one caught sight of a rather sorry sight passing by on the road.
"La! Lizzy Durbeyfield, if there isn't thy father riding home in a carriage" cried Lydia, a young chit reputed as vain and selfish.
Another young member of the band turned her head at the shrill exclamation. She was a fine and handsome girl -- not handsome enough to tempt some, perhaps -- but her mobile peony mouth (which she used to all advantage), and her uncommonly fine eyes added eloquence to her form. She wore a red ribbon in her hair, and was the only one of the white company who could boast of such a pronounced adornment. She looked up at where her father drove, singing bawdily to himself of a long-lost family connection.
"Jane, father is tired, that's all" she said, turning to her younger sister who looked alarmed at her father's display. "We best be gettin' him home".
Lizzy Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, but she had attended the village school and perused over her father's well-beloved volumes almost as frequently as he himself.
Jane Durbeyfield, barely a year younger than Lizzy was a sweet, innocent and even more naive girl than her sister. She followed Lizzy in nearly everything, but retained few of her bad qualities, especially her headstrong ways and her vicious wit.
When a stranger passed the Durbeyfield sisters they might have remarked on Jane's beauty and sweet nature, but Lizzy's freshness and wholesomeness would make them think on her often, long after she had disappeared from sight. Lizzy had that way over people, although most would regard her as a fine and picturesque country girl, and no more.
Instead of walking with their father home, Jane and Elizabeth Durbeyfield watched in horror as her father, well-meaning but intoxicated as usual, drove past the mayday party. Just as he made his way home three young men stopped at the edge of the field. They looked to be in their twenties, and Lizzy felt herself watching them intently. One of the men was eager to dance and quickly took up with Jane Durbeyfield, the most beautiful girl present. The other two hung back for a moment, but eventually the youngest looking one approached the girls.
"Where are your partners?" he asked gallantly, to two or three girls nearest him.
"They've not yet left off work," answered Charlotte Lucas, one of the boldest, and Lizzy's particular friend. "Til then, will you be one, sir?"
"All right" he said with some hesitation, for this group of maidens, however fair, was far below his social status.
"But one among so many of you!"
"Oh, that's all right. 'Tis more fun than traipsing 'round with one of your own sort, as we have done. Now, pick and choose."
The young man, thus invited, glanced them over. He chose one, not Charlotte, nor was his partner Lizzy. All of the alleged d'Urberville relations did not help Lizzy in this life, as yet, even to the extent of attracting her as a dancing partner over the heads of the commonest peasantry.
As the young men danced, the one with Jane seemed to become more and more enchanted, while the other one went from one partner to another. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Lizzy Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her, but also an expression of good humor and intense beauty. With one last look at her fine eyes, the young man called his friend and left the pasture.
As he walked away he noticed two young women standing apart from the group of twirling peasants. One was the fair, smiling beauty his friend had been occupied with. The other was the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was to a man of his rank, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so expressive, so modest, she looked so soft in her thin white gown, and -- her eyes -- that he felt he had acted stupidly. However, it could not be helped, and, turning, he dismissed the subject from his mind.
As for Lizzy Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident from her mind. As she ambled back to the cottage with Jane some time later, she reflected on the events of the evening.
As they arrived home Jane and Lizzy felt something of the holiday atmosphere reflected in the air. They arrived home to their mother's shrieks of "Girls, girls! Such a to do! You'll never 'a guess what's happened to us. Oh, I want to tell 'ee what have happened. Our real name being d'Urberville girls. We be real country gentlefolk. You must go off at once to our nearest relations at the Lodge, by the Chase and claim kin. Your father 'll agree to't. You must go tomorrow."
"Now, now Mrs. d'Urberville," said her husband with great, drunken pride, "I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to strange kin. I'm the head of the noblest branch o' the family, and I ought to live up to it. However, as we don't have any of our possessions befitting noble folk, I stand with your mother girls. You will leave for the Lodge at sunup."
Lizzy and Jane Durbeyfield's route on this memorable morning lay amid the north-eastern undulations of the of the Village. Meryton was, to them, the world, and its inhabitants its race thereof. As they went on their journey, traveling farther afield then ever before, they began to feel homesick, although they had been gone less than half an hour.
The crimson brick lodge of the Lodge came first into sight, up to its eaves in dense evergreens. Its rich, opulent newness stunned the girls.
"I thought we were an old family" whispered Jane, "but this is all so new."
"I wish we had not fallen in so easily with mother's plans for 'claiming kin,'" replied Lizzy.
The d'Urbervilles of the lodge, or Wickham-d'Urbervilles as they first called themselves, were a somewhat unusual family in this old-fashioned part of the country. Old Mr. Wickham, latterly deceased, made his money as the steward of the great Darcy Clare estates in Derbyshire and abroad. He took the name of d'Urberville to put his family in a better light.
Lizzy and Jane stood just inside the gate to the new manor house. They stood hesitating like bathers about the take the plunge, hardly knowing whether to retreat or persevere, when a figure came forth from the dark triangular door of the tent that was set up on the lawn.
"Well, my Beauties, what can I do for you," said he, coming forward. "I am George Wickham-d'Urberville. Have you come to see me, or my mother?"