On inquiry of these precious innocents, to whom even the name of their predecessors was a failing memory, Clare learned that John Durbeyfield was dead; that his widow and children had left Marlott, declaring that they were going to live at Kingsbere, but instead of doing so had gone on to another place they mentioned. By this time Clare abhorred the house for ceasing to contain Tess, and hastened away from its hated presence without once looking back.
His way was by the field in which he had first beheld her at the dance. It was as bad as the house—even worse. He passed on through the churchyard, where, amongst the new headstones, he saw one of a somewhat superior design to the rest. The inscription ran thus:
In memory of John Durbeyfield, rightly d’Urberville, of the once powerful family of that name, and direct descendant through an illustrious line from Sir Pagan d’Urberville, one of the Knights of the Conqueror. Died March 10th, 18—
How Are the Mighty Fallen.
Some man, apparently the sexton, had observed Clare standing there, and drew nigh. “Ah, sir, now that’s a man who didn’t want to lie here, but wished to be carried to Kingsbere, where his ancestors be.”
“And why didn’t they respect his wish?”
“Oh—no money. Bless your soul, sir, why—there, I wouldn’t wish to say it everywhere, but—even this headstone, for all the flourish wrote upon en, is not paid for.”
“Ah, who put it up?”
The man told the name of a mason in the village, and, on leaving the churchyard, Clare called at the mason’s house. He found that the