Sunday Evening — Ursula — Action at Law — Meridiana — Married Already

I took tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Petulengro and Ursula, outside of their tent. Tawno was not present, being engaged with his wife in his own tabernacle; Sylvester was there, however, lolling listlessly upon the ground. As I looked upon this man, I thought him one of the most disagreeable fellows I had ever seen. His features were ugly, and, moreover, as dark as pepper; and, besides being dark, his skin was dirty. As for his dress, it was torn and sordid. His chest was broad, and his arms seemed powerful; but, upon the whole, he looked a very caitiff. ‘I am sorry that man has lost his wife,’ thought I; ‘for I am sure he will never get another.’ What surprises me is, that he ever found a woman disposed to unite her lot with his!

After tea I got up and strolled about the field. My thoughts were upon Isopel Berners. I wondered where she was, and how long she would stay away. At length becoming tired and listless, I determined to return to the dingle, and resume the reading of the Bible at the place where I had left off. ‘What better could I do,’ methought, ‘on a Sunday evening?’ I was then near the wood which surrounded the dingle, but at that side which was farthest from the encampment, which stood near the entrance. Suddenly, on turning round the southern corner of the copse, which surrounded the dingle, I perceived Ursula seated under a thorn-bush. I thought I never saw her look prettier than then, dressed as she was, in her Sunday’s best.

‘Good-evening, Ursula,’ said I; ‘I little thought to have the pleasure of seeing you here.’

‘Nor would you, brother,’ said Ursula, ‘had not Jasper told me that you had been talking about me, and wanted to speak to me under a hedge; so, hearing that, I watched your motions, and came here and sat down.’

‘I was thinking of going to my quarters in the dingle, to read the Bible, Ursula, but —’

‘Oh, pray then, go to your quarters, brother, and read the Miduveleskoe lil; 103 you can speak to me under a hedge some other time.’

‘I think I will sit down with you, Ursula; for, after all, reading godly books in dingles at eve, is rather sombre work. Yes, I think I will sit down with you;’ and I sat down by her side.

‘Well, brother, now you have sat down with me under the hedge, what have you to say to me?’

‘Why, I hardly know, Ursula.’

‘Not know, brother; a pretty fellow you to ask young women to come and sit with you under hedges, and, when they come, not know what to say to them.’

‘Oh! ah! I remember; do you know, Ursula, that I take a great interest in you?’

‘Thank ye, brother; kind of you, at any rate.’

‘You must be exposed to a great many temptations, Ursula.’

‘A great many indeed, brother. It is hard to see fine things, such as shawls, gold watches, and chains in the shops, behind the big glasses, and to know that they are not intended for one. Many’s the time I have been tempted to make a dash at them; but I bethought myself that by so doing I should cut my hands, besides being almost certain of being grabbed and sent across the gull’s bath to the foreign country.’

‘Then you think gold and fine things temptations, Ursula?’

‘Of course, brother, very great temptations; don’t you think them so?’

‘Can’t say I do, Ursula.’

‘Then more fool you, brother; but have the kindness to tell me what you would call a temptation?’

‘Why, for example, the hope of honour and renown, Ursula.’

‘The hope of honour and renown! very good, brother; but I tell you one thing, that unless you have money in your pocket, and good broadcloth on your back, you are not likely to obtain much honour and — what do you call it? amongst the gorgios, to say nothing of the Romany chals.’

‘I should have thought, Ursula, that the Romany chals, roaming about the world as they do, free and independent, were above being led by such trifles.’

‘Then you know nothing of the gypsies, brother; no people on earth are fonder of those trifles, as you call them, than the Romany chals, and more disposed to respect those who have them.’

‘Then money and fine clothes would induce you to do anything, Ursula?’

‘Ay, ay; brother, anything.’

‘To chore, 104 Ursula?’

‘Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring.’

‘To hokkawar?’ 105

‘Ay, ay, I was telling dukkerin only yesterday, brother.’

‘In fact, to break the law in everything?’

‘Who knows, brother, who knows? as I said before, gold and fine clothes are great temptations.’

‘Well, Ursula, I am sorry for it, I should never have thought you so depraved.’

‘Indeed, brother.’

‘To think that I am seated by one who is willing to — to —’

‘Go on, brother.’

‘To play the thief.’

‘Go on, brother.’

‘The liar.’

‘Go on, brother.’

‘The — the —’

‘Go on, brother.’

‘The — the lubbeny.’ 106

‘The what, brother?’ said Ursula, starting from her seat.

‘Why, the lubbeny; don’t you —’

‘I tell you what, brother,’ said Ursula, looking somewhat pale, and speaking very low, ‘if I had only something in my hand, I would do you a mischief.’

‘Why, what is the matter, Ursula?’ said I; ‘how have I offended you?’

‘How have you offended me? Why, didn’t you insinivate just now that I was ready to play the — the —’

‘Go on, Ursula.’

‘The — the — I’ll not say it; but I only wish I had something in my hand.’

‘If I have offended, Ursula, I am very sorry for it; any offence I may have given you was from want of understanding you. Come, pray be seated, I have much to question you about — to talk to you about.’

‘Seated, not I! It was only just now that you gave me to understand that you was ashamed to be seated by me, a thief, a liar.’

‘Well, did you not almost give me to understand that you were both, Ursula?’

‘I don’t much care being called a thief and a liar,’ said Ursula, ‘a person may be a liar and a thief, and yet a very honest woman, but —’

‘Well, Ursula.’

‘I tell you what, brother, if you ever sinivate again that I could be the third thing, so help me duvel! 107 I’ll do you a mischief. By my God I will!’

‘Well, Ursula, I assure you that I shall sinivate, as you call it, nothing of the kind about you. I have no doubt, from what you have said, that you are a very paragon of virtue — a perfect Lucretia; but —’

‘My name is Ursula, brother, and not Lucretia: Lucretia is not of our family, but one of the Bucklands; she travels about Oxfordshire; yet I am as good as she any day.’

‘Lucretia! how odd! Where could she have got that name? Well, I make no doubt, Ursula, that you are quite as good as she, and she as her namesake of ancient Rome; but there is a mystery in this same virtue, Ursula, which I cannot fathom; how a thief and a liar should be able, or indeed willing, to preserve her virtue is what I don’t understand. You confess that you are very fond of gold. Now, how is it that you don’t barter your virtue for gold sometimes? I am a philosopher, Ursula, and like to know everything. You must be every now and then exposed to great temptation, Ursula; for you are of a beauty calculated to captivate all hearts. Come, sit down and tell me how you are enabled to resist such a temptation as gold and fine clothes?’

‘Well, brother,’ said Ursula, ‘as you say you mean no harm, I will sit down beside you, and enter into discourse with you; but I will uphold that you are the coolest hand that I ever came nigh, and say the coolest things.’

And thereupon Ursula sat down by my side.

‘Well, Ursula, we will, if you please, discourse on the subject of your temptations. I suppose that you travel very much about, and show yourself in all kinds of places?’

‘In all kinds, brother; I travels, as you say, very much about, attends fairs and races, and enters booths and public-houses, where I tells fortunes, and sometimes dances and sings.’

‘And do not people often address you in a very free manner?’

‘Frequently, brother; and I give them tolerably free answers.’

‘Do people ever offer to make you presents? I mean presents of value, such as —’

‘Silk handkerchiefs, shawls, and trinkets; very frequently, brother.’

‘And what do you do, Ursula?’

‘I take what people offers me, brother, and stows it away as soon as I can.’

‘Well, but don’t people expect something for their presents? I don’t mean dukkerin, dancing, and the like; but such a moderate and innocent thing as a choomer, 108 Ursula?’

‘Innocent thing, do you call it, brother?’

‘The world calls it so, Ursula. Well, do the people who give you the fine things never expect a choomer in return?’

‘Very frequently, brother.’

‘And do you ever grant it?’

‘Never, brother.’

‘How do you avoid it?’

‘I gets away as soon as possible, brother. If they follows me, I tries to baffle them, by means of jests and laughter; and if they persist, I uses bad and terrible language, of which I have plenty in store.’

‘But if your terrible language has no effect?’

‘Then I screams for the constable, and if he comes not, I uses my teeth and nails.’

‘And are they always sufficient?’

‘I have only had to use them twice, brother; but then I found them sufficient.’

‘But suppose the person who followed you was highly agreeable, Ursula? A handsome young officer of local militia, for example, all dressed in Lincoln green, would you still refuse him the choomer?’

‘We makes no difference, brother; the daughters of the gypsy-father makes no difference; and, what’s more, sees none.’

‘Well, Ursula, the world will hardly give you credit for such indifference.’

‘What cares we for the world, brother! we are not of the world.’

‘But your fathers, brothers, and uncles, give you credit I suppose, Ursula.’

‘Ay, ay, brother, our fathers, brothers, and cokos 109 gives us all manner of credit; for example, I am telling lies and dukkerin in a public-house where my batu 110 or coko — perhaps both — are playing on the fiddle; well, my batu and my coko beholds me amongst the public-house crew, talking nonsense and hearing nonsense; but they are under no apprehension; and presently they sees the good-looking officer of militia, in his greens and Lincolns, get up and give me a wink, and I go out with him abroad, into the dark night perhaps; well, my batu and my coko goes on fiddling, just as if I were six miles off asleep in the tent, and not out in the dark street with the local officer, with his Lincolns and his greens.’

‘They know they can trust you, Ursula?’

‘Ay, ay, brother; and, what’s more, I knows I can trust myself.’

‘So you would merely go out to make a fool of him, Ursula?’

‘Merely go out to make a fool of him, brother, I assure you.’

‘But such proceedings really have an odd look, Ursula.’

‘Amongst gorgios, very so, brother.’

‘Well, it must be rather unpleasant to lose one’s character even amongst gorgios, Ursula; and suppose the officer, out of revenge for being tricked and duped by you, were to say of you the thing that is not, were to meet you on the race-course the next day, and boast of receiving favours which he never had, amidst a knot of jeering militia-men, how would you proceed, Ursula? would you not be abashed?’

‘By no means, brother; I should bring my action of law against him.’

‘Your action at law, Ursula?’

‘Yes, brother; I should give a whistle, whereupon all one’s cokos and batus, and all my near and distant relations, would leave their fiddling, dukkerin, and horse-dealing, and come flocking about me. “What’s the matter, Ursula?” says my coko. “Nothing at all,” I replies, “save and except that gorgio, in his greens and his Lincolns, says that I have played the —— with him.” “Oho, he does, Ursula,” says my coko, “try your action of law against him, my lamb,” and he puts something privily into my hands; whereupon I goes close up to the grinning gorgio, and staring him in the face, with my head pushed forward, I cries out: “You say I did what was wrong with you last night when I was out with you abroad?” “Yes,” says the local officer, “I says you did,” looking down all the time. “You are a liar,” says I, and forthwith I breaks his head with the stick which I holds behind me, and which my coko has conveyed privily into my hand.’

‘And this is your action at law, Ursula?’

‘Yes, brother, this is m............