directions about the kettle and fire, putting, at the same time, sixpence into her hand. “Very strange,” thought I; then dismissing the gypsy girl I sat down by the fire. I had no wish for tea, but sat looking on the embers, wondering what could be the motive of the sudden departure of Isopel. “Does she mean to return?” thought I to myself. “Surely she means to return,” Hope replied, “or she would not have gone away without leaving any message”—“and yet she could scarcely mean to return,” muttered Foreboding, “or she would assuredly have left some message with the girl.” I then thought to myself what a hard thing it would be, if, after having made up my mind to assume the yoke of matrimony, I should be disappointed of the woman of my choice. “Well, after all,” thought I, “I can scarcely be disappointed; if such an ugly scoundrel as Sylvester had no difficulty in getting such a nice wife as Ursula, surely I, who am not a tenth part so ugly, cannot fail to obtain the hand of Isopel Berners, uncommonly fine damsel though she be. Husbands do not grow upon hedge-rows; she is merely gone after a little business and will return to-morrow.”
Comforted in some degree by these hopeful imaginings, I retired to my tent, and went to sleep.
CHAPTER XXXII.—GLOOMY FOREBODINGS—THE POSTMAN’S MOTHER—A VALEDICTORY LETTER FROM ISOPEL WITH A LOCK OF HER HAIR—THE END OF A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF THE ROMANY RYE—AND OF THE BOOK OF ISOPEL BERNERS.
Nothing occurred to me of any particular moment during the following day. Isopel Berners did not return; but Mr. Petulengro and his companions came home from the fair early in the morning. When I saw him, which was about mid-day, I found him with his face bruised and swelled. It appeared that, some time after I had left him, he himself perceived that the jockeys with whom he was playing cards were cheating him and his companion; a quarrel ensued, which terminated in a fight between Mr. Petulengro and one of the jockeys, which lasted some time, and in which Mr. Petulengro, though he eventually came off victor, was considerably beaten. His bruises, in conjunction with his pecuniary loss, which amounted to about seven pounds, were the cause of his being much out of humour; before night, however, he had returned to his usual philosophic frame of mind, and, coming up to me as I was walking about, apologised for his behaviour on the preceding day, and assured me that he was determined, from that time forward, never to quarrel with a friend for giving him good advice.
Two more days passed, and still Isopel Berners did not return. Gloomy thoughts and forebodings filled my mind. During the day I wandered about the neighbouring roads in the hopes of catching an early glimpse of her and her returning vehicle; and at night lay awake, tossing about on my hard couch, listening to the rustle of every leaf, and occasionally thinking that I heard the sound of her wheels upon the distant road. Once at midnight, just as I was about to fall into unconsciousness, I suddenly started up, for I was convinced that I heard the sound of wheels. I listened most anxiously, and the sound of wheels striking against stones was certainly plain enough. “She comes at last,” thought I, and for a few moments I felt as if a mountain had been removed from my breast;—“here she comes at last, now, how shall I receive her? Oh,” thought I, “I will receive her rather coolly, just as if I was not particularly anxious about her—that’s the way to manage these women.” The next moment the sound became very loud, rather too loud, I thought, to proceed from her wheels, and then by degrees became fainter. Rushing out of my tent, I hurried up the path to the top of the dingle, where I heard the sound distinctly enough, but it was going from me, and evidently proceeded from something much larger than the cart of Isopel. I could, moreover, hear the stamping of a horse’s hoofs at a lumbering trot. Those only whose hopes have been wrought up to a high pitch, and then suddenly dashed down, can imagine what I felt at that moment; and yet when I returned
to my lonely tent, and lay down on my hard pallet, the voice of conscience told me that the misery I was then undergoing, I had fully merited, from the unkind manner in which I had intended to receive her, when for a brief moment I supposed that she had returned.
It was on the morning after this affair, and the fourth, if I forget not, from the time of Isopel’s departure, that, as I was seated on my stone at the bottom of the dingle, getting my breakfast, I heard an unknown voice from the path above—apparently that of a person descending—exclaim, “Here’s a strange place to bring a letter to;” and presently an old woman, with a belt round her middle, to which was attached a leathern bag, made her appearance, and stood before me.
“Well, if I ever!” said she, as she looked about her. “My good gentlewoman,” said I, “pray what may you please to want?” “Gentlewoman!” said the old dame, “please to want!—well, I call that speaking civilly, at any rate. It is true, civil words cost nothing; nevertheless, we do not always get them. What I please to want is to deliver a letter to a young man in this place; perhaps you be he?” “What’s the name on the letter?” said I, getting up and going to her. “There is no name upon it,” said she, taking a letter out of her scrip and looking at it. “It is directed to the young man in Mumpers’ Dingle.” “Then it is for me, I make no doubt,” said I, stretching out my hand to take it. “Please to pay me ninepence
first,” said the old woman. “However,” said she, after a moment’s thought, “civility is civility, and, being rather a scarce article, should meet with some return. Here’s the letter, young man, and I hope you will pay for it; for if you do not, I must pay the postage myself.” “You are the postwoman, I suppose?” said I, as I took the letter. “I am the postman’s mother,” said the old woman; “but as he has a wide beat, I help him as much as I can, and I generally carry letters to places like this, to which he is afraid to come himself.” “You say the postage is ninepence,” said I, “here’s a shilling.” “Well, I call that honourable,” said the old woman, taking the shilling and putting it into her pocket—“here’s your change, young man,” said she, offering me threepence. “Pray keep that for yourself,” said I; “you deserve it for your trouble.” “Well, I call that genteel,” said the old woman; “and as one good turn deserves another, since you look as if you couldn’t read, I will read your letter for you. Let’s see it; it’s from some young woman or other, I dare say.” “Thank you,” said I, “but I can read.” “All the better for you,” said the old woman; “your being able to read will frequently save you a penny, for that’s the charge I generally make for reading letters; though, as you behaved so genteelly to me, I should have charged you nothing. Well, if you can read, why don’t you open the letter, instead of keeping it hanging between your finger and thumb?” “I am in no hurry to open it,” said I, with a sigh. The old woman looked at me for a moment—“Well, young
man,” said she, “there are some—especially those who can read—who don’t like to open their letters when anybody is by, more especially when they come from young women. Well, I won’t intrude upon you, but leave you alone with your letter. I wish it may contain something pleasant. God bless you,” and with these words she departed.