“Ay, ay, brother, anything.”
“To chore, Ursula?”
“Like enough, brother; gypsies have been transported before now for choring.”
“To hokkawar?”
“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.”
“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! 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 takes 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, 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,
