“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 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?”