"Didn't you see me?" asked d'Urberville.

"I was not attending," she said. "I heard you, I believe, though I

fancied it was a carriage and horses. I was in a sort of dream."

"Ah! you heard the d'Urberville Coach, perhaps. You know the legend,

I suppose?"

"No. My--somebody was going to tell it me once, but didn't."

"If you are a genuine d'Urberville I ought not to tell you either,

I suppose. As for me, I'm a sham one, so it doesn't matter. It is

rather dismal. It is that this sound of a non-existent coach can

only be heard by one of d'Urberville blood, and it is held to be

Advertisement..

of ill-omen to the one who hears it. It has to do with a murder,

committed by one of the family, centuries ago."

"Now you have begun it, finish it."

"Very well. One of the family is said to have abducted some

beautiful woman, who tried to escape from the coach in which he was

carrying her off, and in the struggle he killed her--or she killed

him--I forget which. Such is one version of the tale... I see that

your tubs and buckets are packed. Going away, aren't you?"

"Yes, to-morrow--Old Lady Day."

"I heard you were, but could hardly believe it; it seems so sudden.

Why is it?"

"Father's was the last life on the property, and when that dropped we

had no further right to stay. Though we might, perhaps, have stayed

as weekly tenants--if it had not been for me."

"What about you?"

"I am not a--proper woman." D'Urberville's face flushed.

"What a blasted shame! Miserable snobs! May their dirty souls

be burnt to cinders!" he exclaimed in tones of ironic resentment.

"That's why you are going, is it? Turned out?"

"We are not turned out exactly; but as they said we should have to go

soon, it was best to go now everybody was moving, because there are

better chances."

"Where are you going to?"

"Kingsbere. We have taken rooms there. Mother is so foolish about

father's people that she will go there."

"But your mother's family are not fit for lodgings, and in a little

hole of a town like that. Now why not come to my garden-house at

Trantridge? There are hardly any poultry now, since my mother's

death; but there's the house, as you know it, and the garden. It

can be whitewashed in a day, and your mother can live there quite

comfortably; and I will put the children to a good school. Really

I ought to do something for you!"




Most Popular