"HOW MUCH WILL IT COST?

"There you are, Mr. Caudle, with your meanness again. When you want

to go yourself to Blackwall or to Greenwich you never ask, how much

will it cost? What?

"YOU NEVER GO TO BLACKWALL?

"Ha! I don't know that; and if you don't, that's nothing at all to

do with it. Yes, you can give a guinea a plate for whitebait for

yourself. No, sir: I'm not a foolish woman: and I know very well

what I'm talking about--nobody better. A guinea for whitebait for

yourself, when you grudge a pint of shrimps for your poor family.

Eh?

"YOU DON'T GRUDGE 'EM ANYTHING?

"Yes, it's very well for you to lie there and say so.

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"It's no matter what it will cost, for we won't go at all now. No;

we'll stay at home. We shall all be ill in the winter--every one of

us, all but you; and nothing ever makes you ill. I've no doubt we

shall all be laid up, and there'll be a doctor's bill as long as a

railroad; but never mind that. It's better--much better--to pay for

nasty physic than for fresh air and wholesome salt water. Don't call

me 'woman,' and ask 'what it will cost.' I tell you, if you were to

lay the money down before me on that quilt, I wouldn't go now--

certainly not. It's better we should all be sick; yes, then you'll

be pleased.

"That's right, Mr. Caudle; go to sleep. It's like your unfeeling

self! I'm talking of our all being laid up; and you, like any stone,

turn round and begin to go to sleep. Well, I think that's a pretty

insult!

"HOW CAN YOU SLEEP WITH SUCH A SPLINTER IN YOUR FLESH?

"I suppose you mean to call me the splinter?--and after the wife I've

been to you! But no, Mr. Caudle, you may call me what you please;

you'll not make me cry now. No, no; I don't throw away my tears upon

any such person now.

"What?

"DON'T?

"Ha! that's your ingratitude! But none of you men deserve that any

woman should love you. My poor heart!

"Everybody else can go out of town except us. Ha! If I'd only

married Simmons--What?

"WHY DIDN'T I?

"Yes, that's all the thanks I get.

"WHO'S SIMMONS?

"Oh, you know very well who Simmons is. He'd have treated me a

little better, I think. He WAS a gentleman.

"YOU CAN'T TELL?

"May be not: but I can. With such weather as this, to stay melting

in London; and when the painters are coming in!

"YOU WON'T HAVE THE PAINTERS IN?

"But you must; and if they once come in, I'm determined that none of

us shall stir then. Painting in July, with a family in the house!

We shall all be poisoned, of course; but what do you care for that?

"WHY CAN'T I TELL YOU WHAT IT WILL COST?

"How can I or any woman tell exactly what it will cost? Of course

lodgings--and at Margate, too--are a little dearer than living at

your own house.

"POOH! YOU KNOW THAT?

"Well, if you did, Mr. Caudle, I suppose there's no treason in naming

it. Still, if you take 'em for two months, they're cheaper than for

one. No, Mr. Caudle, I shall not be quite tired of it in one month.

No: and it isn't true that I no sooner get out than I want to get

home again. To be sure, I was tired of Margate three years ago, when

you used to leave me to walk about the beach by myself, to be stared

at through all sorts of telescopes. But you don't do that again, Mr.

Caudle, I can tell you.

"WHAT WILL I DO AT MARGATE?

"Why, isn't there bathing, and picking up shells; and aren't there

the packets, with the donkeys; and the last new novel, whatever it

is, to read?--for the only place where I really relish a book is at

the sea-side. No; it isn't that I like salt with my reading, Mr.

Caudle! I suppose you call that a joke? You might keep your jokes

for the daytime, I think. But as I was saying--only you always will

interrupt me--the ocean always seems to me to open the mind. I see

nothing to laugh at; but you always laugh when I say anything.

Sometimes at the sea-side--especially when the tide's down--I feel so

happy: quite as if I could cry.

"When shall I get the things ready? For next Sunday?

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"Oh, there--don't talk of it. No: we won't go. I shall send for

the painters to-morrow. What?

"I CAN GO AND TAKE THE CHILDREN, AND YOU'LL STAY?

"No, sir: you go with me, or I don't stir. I'm not going to be

turned loose like a hen with her chickens, and nobody to protect me.

So we'll go on Monday? Eh?

"WHAT WILL IT COST?

"What a man you are! Why, Caudle, I've been reckoning that, with

buff slippers and all, we can't well do it under seventy pounds. No;

I won't take away the slippers and say fifty. It's seventy pounds

and no less. Of course, what's over will be so much saved. Caudle,

what a man you are! Well, shall we go on Monday? What do you say -

"YOU'LL SEE?

"There's a dear. Then, Monday."

"Anything for a chance of peace," writes Caudle. "I consented to the

trip, for I thought I might sleep better in a change of bed."

LECTURE XXIV--MRS. CAUDLE DWELLS ON CAUDLE'S "CRUEL NEGLECT" OF HER

ON BOARD THE "RED ROVER." MRS. CAUDLE SO "ILL WITH THE SEA," THAT

THEY PUT UP AT THE DOLPHIN, HERNE BAY.

"Caudle, have you looked under the bed?

"WHAT FOR?

"Bless the man! Why, for thieves, to be sure. Do you suppose I'd

sleep in a strange bed without? Don't tell me it's nonsense! I

shouldn't sleep a wink all night. Not that you'd care for that; not

that you'd--hush! I'm sure I heard somebody. No; it's not a bit

like a mouse. Yes; that's like you--laugh. It would be no laughing

matter if--I'm sure there IS somebody!--I'm sure there is!

"--Yes, Mr. Caudle; now I AM satisfied. Any other man would have got

up and looked himself; especially after my sufferings on board that

nasty ship. But catch you stirring! Oh, no! You'd let me lie here

and be robbed and killed, for what you'd care. Why you're not going

to sleep? What do you say?

"IT'S THE STRANGE AIR--AND YOU'RE ALWAYS SLEEPY IN A STRANGE AIR?

"That shows the feelings you have, after what I've gone through. And

yawning, too, in that brutal manner! Caudle, you've no more heart

than that wooden figure in a white petticoat at the front of the

ship.

"No; I COULDN'T leave my temper at home. I dare say! Because for

once in your life you've brought me out--yes, I say once, or two or

three times, it isn't more; because, as I say, you once bring me out,

I'm to be a slave and say nothing. Pleasure, indeed! A great deal

of pleasure I'm to have, if I'm told to hold my tongue. A nice way

that of pleasing a woman.

"Dear me! if the bed doesn't spin round and dance about! I've got

all that filthy ship in my head! No: I sha'n't be well in the

morning. But nothing ever ails anybody but yourself. You needn't

groan in that way, Mr. Caudle, disturbing the people, perhaps, in the

next room. It's a mercy I'm alive, I'm sure. If once I wouldn't

have given all the world for anybody to have thrown me overboard!

What are you smacking your lips at, Mr. Caudle? But I know what you

mean--of course, you'd never have stirred to stop 'em; not you. And

then you might have known that the wind would have blown to-day; but

that's why you came.

"Whatever I should have done if it hadn't been for that good soul--

that blessed Captain Large! I'm sure all the women who go to Margate

ought to pray for him; so attentive in sea-sickness, and so much of a

gentleman! How I should have got down stairs without him when I

first began to turn, I don't know. Don't tell me I never complained

to you; you might have seen I was ill. And when everybody was

looking like a bad wax-candle, you could walk about, and make what

you call your jokes upon the little buoy that was never sick at the

Nore, and such unfeeling trash.

"Yes, Caudle; we've now been married many years, but if we were to

live together for a thousand years to come--what are you clasping

your hands at?--a thousand years to come, I say, I shall never forget

your conduct this day. You could go to the other end of the ship and

smoke a cigar, when you knew I should be ill--oh, you knew it; for I

always am. The brutal way, too, in which you took that cold brandy-

and-water--you thought I didn't see you; but ill as I was, hardly

able to hold my head up, I was watching you all the time. Three

glasses of cold brandy-and-water; and you sipped 'em, and drank the

health of people who you didn't care a pin about; whilst the health

of your own lawful wife was nothing. Three glasses of brandy-and-

water, and _I_ left--as I may say--alone! You didn't hear 'em, but

everybody was crying shame of you.

"What do you say?

"A GOOD DEAL MY OWN FAULT? I TOOK TOO MUCH DINNER?

"Well, you are a man! If I took more than the breast and leg of that

young goose--a thing, I may say, just out of the shell--with the

slightest bit of stuffing, I'm a wicked woman. What do you say?

"LOBSTER SALAD?

"La!--how can you speak of it? A month-old baby would have eaten

more. What?

"GOOSEBERRY PIE?

"Well, if you'll name that you'll name anything. Ate too much

indeed! Do you think I was going to pay for a dinner, and eat

nothing? No, Mr. Caudle; it's a good thing for you that I know a

little more of the value of money than that.

"But, of course, you were better engaged than in attending to me.

Mr. Prettyman came on board at Gravesend. A planned thing, of

course. You think I didn't see him give you a letter.

"IT WASN'T A LETTER; IT WAS A NEWSPAPER?

"I daresay; ill as I was, I had my eyes. It was the smallest

newspaper I ever saw, that's all. But of course, a letter from Miss

Prettyman--Now, Caudle, if you begin to cry out in that manner, I'll

get up. Do you forget that you are not at your own house? making

that noise! Disturbing everybody! Why, we shall have the landlord

up! And you could smoke and drink 'forward,' as you called it.

What?

"YOU COULDN'T SMOKE ANYWHERE ELSE?

"That's nothing to do with it. Yes; forward. What a pity that Miss

Prettyman wasn't with you! I'm sure nothing could be too forward for

her. No, I won't hold my tongue; and I ought not to be ashamed of

myself. It isn't treason, is it, to speak of Miss Prettyman? After

all I've suffered to-day, and I'm not to open my lips! Yes; I'm to

be brought away from my own home, dragged down here to the sea-side,

and made ill! and I'm not to speak. I should like to know what next.

"It's a mercy some of the dear children were not drowned; not that

their father would have cared, so long as he could have had his

brandy and cigars. Peter was as near through one of the holes as -

"IT'S NO SUCH THING?

"It's very well for you to say so, but you know what an inquisitive

boy he is, and how he likes to wander among steam-engines. No, I

won't let you sleep. What a man you are! What?

"I'VE SAID THAT BEFORE?

"That's no matter; I'll say it again. Go to sleep, indeed! as if one

could never have a little rational conversation. No, I sha'n't be

too late for the Margate boat in the morning; I can wake up at what

hour I like, and you ought to know that by this time.

"A miserable creature they must have thought me in the ladies' cabin,

with nobody coming down to see how I was.

"YOU CAME A DOZEN TIMES?

"No, Caudle, that won't do. I know better. You never came at all.

Oh, no! cigars and brandy took all your attention. And when I was so

ill, that I didn't know a single thing that was going on about me,

and you never came. Every other woman's husband was there--ha!

twenty times. And what must have been my feelings to hear 'em

tapping at the door, and making all sorts of kind inquiries--

something like husbands and I was left to be ill alone? Yes; and you

want to get me into an argument. You want to know, if I was so ill

that I knew nothing, how could I know that you didn't come to the

cabin-door? That's just like your aggravating way; but I'm not to be

caught in that manner, Caudle. No."

"It is very possible," writes Caudle, "that she talked two hours

more, but, happily, the wind got suddenly up--the waves bellowed--

and, soothed by the sweet lullaby (to say nothing of the Dolphin's

brandy-and-water) I somehow sank to repose."

LECTURE XXV--MRS. CAUDLE, WEARIED OF MARGATE, HAS "A GREAT DESIRE TO

SEE FRANCE."

"Bless me! aren't you tired, Caudle?

"NO?

"Well, was there ever such a man! But nothing ever tires you. Of

course, it's all very well for you: yes, you can read your

newspapers and--What?

"SO CAN I?

"And I wonder what would become of the children if I did! No; it's

enough for their father to lose his precious time, talking about

politics, and bishops, and lords, and a pack of people who wouldn't

care a pin if we hadn't a roof to cover us--it's well enough for--no,

Caudle, no: I'm not going to worry you; I never worried you yet, and

it isn't likely I should begin now. But that's always the way with

you--always. I'm sure we should be the happiest couple alive, only

you do so like to have all the talk to yourself. We're out upon

pleasure, and therefore let's be comfortable. Still, I must say it:

when you like, you're an aggravating man, Caudle, and you know it.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?

"There, now; we won't talk of it. No; let's go to sleep: otherwise

we shall quarrel--I know we shall. What have you done, indeed! That

I can't leave my home for a few days, but I must be insulted!

Everybody upon the pier saw it.

"SAW WHAT?

"How can you lie there in the bed and ask me? Saw what, indeed! Of

course it was a planned thing!--regularly settled before you left

London. Oh yes! I like your innocence, Mr. Caudle; not knowing what

I'm talking about. It's a heart-breaking thing for a woman to say of

her own husband; but you've been a wicked man to me. Yes: and all

your tossing and tumbling about in the bed won't make it any better.

"Oh, it's easy enough to call a woman 'a dear soul.' I must be very

dear, indeed, to you, when you bring down Miss Prettyman to--there

now; you needn't shout like a wild savage. Do you know that you're

not in your own house--do you know that we're in lodgings? What do

you suppose the people will think of us? You needn't call out in

that manner, for they can hear every word that's said. What do you

say?

"WHY DON'T I HOLD MY TONGUE THEN?

"To be sure; anything for an excuse with you. Anything to stop my

mouth. Miss Prettyman's to follow you here, and I'm to say nothing.

I know she HAS followed you; and if you were to go before a

magistrate, and take a shilling oath to the contrary, I wouldn't

believe you. No, Caudle; I wouldn't.

"VERY WELL, THEN?

"Ha! what a heart you must have, to say 'very well'; and after the

wife I've been to you. I'm to be brought from my own home--dragged

down here to the sea-side--to be laughed at before the world--don't

tell me. Do you think I didn't see how she looked at you--how she

puckered up her farthing mouth--and--what?

"WHY DID I KISS HER, THEN?

"What's that to do with it? Appearances are one thing, Mr. Caudle;

and feelings are another. As if women can't kiss one another without

meaning anything by it! And you--I could see you looked as cold and

as formal at her as--well, Caudle! I wouldn't be the hypocrite you

are for the world!

"There, now; I've heard all that story. I daresay she did come down

to join her brother. How very lucky, though, that you should be

here! Ha! ha! how very lucky that--ugh! ugh! ugh! and with the cough

I've got upon me--oh, you've a heart like a sea-side flint! Yes,

that's right. That's just like your humanity. I can't catch a cold,

but it must be my own fault--it must be my thin shoes. I daresay

you'd like to see me in ploughman's boots; 'twould be no matter to

you how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot, NOW, would be

another thing--no doubt.

"I thought when you would make me leave home--I thought we were

coming here on pleasure: but it's always the way you embitter my

life. The sooner that I'm out of the world the better. What do you

say?

"NOTHING?

"But I know what you mean, better than if you talked an hour. I only

hope you'll get a better wife, that's all, Mr. Caudle. What?

"YOU'D NOT TRY?

"Wouldn't you? I know you. In six months you'd fill up my place;

yes, and dreadfully my dear children would suffer for it.

"Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warning to-

morrow.

"CAN'T I BE QUIET, THEN?

"Yes--that's like your artfulness: anything to make me hold my

tongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm sure if it depended upon me, we

might be as happy as doves. I mean it--and you needn't groan when I

say it. Good-night, Caudle. What do you say?

"BLESS ME!

"Well, you are a dear soul, Caudle; and if it wasn't for that Miss

Prettyman--no, I'm not torturing you. I know very well what I'm

doing, and I wouldn't torture you for the world; but you don't know

what the feelings of a wife are, Caudle; you don't.

"Caudle--I say, Caudle. Just a word, dear.

"WELL?

"Now, why should you snap me up in that way?

"YOU WANT TO GO TO SLEEP?

"So do I; but that's no reason you should speak to me in that manner.

You know, dear, you once promised to take me to France.

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT IT?

"Yes--that's like you; you don't recollect many things you've

promised me; but I do. There's a boat goes on Wednesday to Boulogne,

and comes back the day afterwards.

"WHAT OF IT?

"Why, for that time we could leave the children with the girls, and

go nicely.

"NONSENSE?

"Of course; if I want anything it's always nonsense. Other men can

take their wives half over the world; but you think it quite enough

to bring me down here to this hole of a place, where I know every

pebble on the beach like an old acquaintance--where there's nothing

to be seen but the same machines--the same jetty--the same donkeys--

the same everything. But then, I'd forgot; Margate has an attraction

for you--Miss Prettyman's here. No; I'm not censorious, and I

wouldn't backbite an angel; but the way in which that young woman

walks the sands at all hours--there! there!--I've done: I can't open

my lips about that creature but you always storm.

"You know that I always wanted to go to France; and you bring me down

here only on purpose that I should see the French cliffs--just to

tantalise me, and for nothing else. If I'd remained at home--and it

was against my will I ever came here--I should never have thought of

France; but--to have it staring in one's face all day, and not be

allowed to go! it's worse than cruel, Mr. Caudle--it's brutal. Other

people can take their wives to Paris; but you always keep me moped up

at home. And what for? Why, that I may know nothing--yes; just on

purpose to make me look little, and for nothing else.

"HEAVEN BLESS THE WOMAN?

"Ha! you've good reason to say that, Mr. Caudle; for I'm sure she's

little blessed by you. She's been kept a prisoner all her life--has

never gone anywhere--oh yes! that's your old excuse,--talking of the

children. I want to go to France, and I should like to know what the

children have to do with it? They're not babies NOW--are they? But

you've always thrown the children in my face. If Miss Prettyman--

there now; do you hear what you've done--shouting in that manner?

The other lodgers are knocking overhead: who do you think will have

the face to look at 'em to-morrow morning? I sha'n't--breaking

people's rest in that way!

"Well, Caudle--I declare it's getting daylight, and what an obstinate

man you are!--tell me, shall I go to France?"

"I forget," says Caudle, "my precise answer; but I think I gave her a

very wide permission to go somewhere, whereupon, though not without

remonstrance as to the place--she went to sleep."

LECTURE XXVI--MRS. CAUDLE'S FIRST NIGHT IN FRANCE--"SHAMEFUL

INDIFFERENCE" OF CAUDLE AT THE BOULOGNE CUSTOM HOUSE

"I suppose, Mr. Caudle, you call yourself a man? I'm sure such men

should never have wives. If I could have thought it possible you'd

have behaved as you have done--and I might, if I hadn't been a

forgiving creature, for you've never been like anybody else--if I

could only have thought it, you'd never have dragged me to foreign

parts. Never! Well, I DID say to myself, if he goes to France,

perhaps he may catch a little politeness--but no; you began as

Caudle, and as Caudle you'll end. I'm to be neglected through life,

now. Oh yes! I've quite given up all thoughts of anything but

wretchedness--I've made up my mind to misery, now.

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"Well, you must have a heart to say that. I declare to you, Caudle,

as true as I'm an ill-used woman, if it wasn't for the dear children

far away in blessed England--if it wasn't for them, I'd never go back

with you. No: I'd leave you in this very place. Yes; I'd go into a

convent; for a lady on board told me there was plenty of 'em here.

I'd go and be a nun for the rest of my days, and--I see nothing to

laugh at, Mr. Caudle; that you should be shaking the bed-things up

and down in that way. But you always laugh at people's feelings; I

wish you'd only some yourself. I'd be a nun, or a Sister of Charity.

"IMPOSSIBLE?

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, you don't know even now what I can be when my

blood's up. You've trod upon the worm long enough; some day won't

you be sorry for it!

"Now, none of your profane cryings out! You needn't talk about

Heaven in that way: I'm sure you're the last person who ought. What

I say is this. Your conduct at the Custom House was shameful--cruel!

And in a foreign land, too! But you brought me here that I might be

insulted; you'd no other reason for dragging me from England. Ha!

let me once get home, Mr. Caudle, and you may wear your tongue out

before you get me into outlandish places again.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"There, now; that's where you're so aggravating. You behave worse

than any Turk to me,--what?

"YOU WISH YOU WERE A TURK?

"Well, I think that's a pretty wish before your lawful wife! Yes--a

nice Turk you'd make, wouldn't you? Don't think it.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"Well, it's a good thing I can't see you, for I'm sure you must

blush. Done, indeed!

"Why, when the brutes searched my basket at the Custom House!

"A REGULAR THING, IS IT?

"Then if you knew that, why did you bring me here? No man who

respected his wife would. And you could stand by, and see that

fellow with mustachios rummage my basket; and pull out my night-cap

and rumple the borders, and--well! if you'd had the proper feelings

of a husband, your blood would have boiled again. But no! There you

stood looking as mild as butter at the man, and never said a word;

not when he crumpled my night-cap--it went to my heart like a stab--

crumpled it as if it were any duster. I dare say if it had been Miss

Prettyman's night-cap--oh, I don't care about your groaning--if it

had been her night-cap, her hair-brush her curl-papers, you'd have

said something then. Oh, anybody with the spirit of a man would have

spoken out if the fellow had had a thousand swords at his side.

Well, all I know is this: if I'd have married somebody I could name,

he wouldn't have suffered me to be treated in that way, not he!

"Now, don't hope to go to sleep, Mr. Caudle, and think to silence me

in that manner. I know your art, but it won't do. It wasn't enough

that my basket was turned topsy-turvy, but before I knew it, they

spun me into another room, and -

"HOW COULD YOU HELP THAT?

"You never tried to help it. No; although it was a foreign land, and

I don't speak French--not but what I know a good deal more of it than

some people who give themselves airs about it--though I don't speak

their nasty gibberish, still you let them take me away, and never

cared how I was ever to find you again. In a strange country, too!

But I've no doubt that that's what you wished: yes, you'd have been

glad enough to have got rid of me in that cowardly manner. If I

could only know your secret thoughts, Caudle, that's what you brought

me here for, to lose me. And after the wife I've been to you!

"What are you crying out?

"FOR MERCY'S SAKE?

"Yes; a great deal you know about mercy! Else you'd never have

suffered me to be twisted into that room. To be searched, indeed!

As if I'd anything smuggled about me. Well, I will say it, after the

way in which I've been used, if you'd the proper feelings of a man,

you wouldn't sleep again for six months. Well, I know there was

nobody but women there; but that's nothing to do with it. I'm sure,

if I'd been taken up for picking pockets, they couldn't have used me

worse. To be treated so--and 'specially by one's own sex!--it's THAT

that aggravates me.

"And that's all you can say?

"WHAT COULD YOU DO?

"Why, break open the door; I'm sure you must have heard my voice:

you shall never make me believe you couldn't hear that. Whenever I

shall sew the strings on again, I can't tell. If they didn't turn me

out like a ship in a storm, I'm a sinner! And you laughed!

"YOU DIDN'T LAUGH?

"Don't tell me; you laugh when you don't know anything about it; but

I do.

"And a pretty place you have brought me to! A most respectable

place, I must say! Where the women walk about without any bonnets to

their heads, and the fish-girls with their bare legs--well, you don't

catch me eating any fish while I'm here.

"WHY NOT?

"Why not,--do you think I'd encourage people of that sort?

"What do you say?

"GOOD-NIGHT?

"It's no use your saying that--I can't go to sleep so soon as you

can. Especially with a door that has such a lock as that to it. How

do we know who may come in? What?

"ALL THE LOCKS ARE BAD IN FRANCE?

"The more shame for you to bring me to such a place, then. It only

shows how you value me.

"Well, I dare say you are tired. I am! But then, see what I've gone

through. Well, we won't quarrel in a barbarous country. We won't do

that. Caudle, dear,--what's the French for lace? I know it, only I

forget it. The French for lace, love? What?

"DENTELLE?

"Now, you're not deceiving me?

"YOU NEVER DECEIVED ME YET?

"Oh! don't say that. There isn't a married man in this blessed world

can put his hand upon his heart in bed and say that. French for

lace, dear? Say it again.

"DENTELLE?

"Ha! Dentelle! Good-night, dear. Dentelle! Den-telle."

"I afterwards," writes Caudle, "found out to my cost wherefore she

inquired about lace. For she went out in the morning with the

landlady to buy a veil, giving only four pounds for what she could

have bought in England for forty shillings!"

LECTURE XXVII--MRS. CAUDLE RETURNS TO HER NATIVE LAND. "UNMANLY

CRUELTY" OF CAUDLE, WHO HAS REFUSED "TO SMUGGLE A FEW THINGS" FOR HER

"There, it isn't often that I ask you to do anything for me, Mr.

Caudle, goodness knows! and when I do, I'm always refused--of course.

Oh yes! anybody but your own lawful wife. Every other husband aboard

the boat could behave like a husband--but I was left to shift for

myself. To be sure, that's nothing new; I always am. Every other

man, worthy to be called a man, could smuggle a few things for his

wife--but I might as well be alone in the world. Not one poor half-

dozen of silk stockings could you put in your hat for me; and

everybody else was rolled in lace, and I don't know what. Eh? What,

Mr. Caudle?

"WHAT DO I WANT WITH SILK STOCKINGS?

"Well--it's come to something now! There was a time, I believe, when

I had a foot--yes, and an ankle, too; but when once a woman's

married, she has nothing of the sort; of course. No: I'm NOT a

cherub, Mr. Caudle; don't say that. I know very well what I am.

"I dare say now, you'd have been delighted to smuggle for Miss

Prettyman? Silk stockings become her!

"YOU WISH MISS PRETTYMAN WAS IN THE MOON?

"Not you, Mr. Caudle; that's only your art--your hypocrisy. A nice

person too she'd be for the moon: it would be none the brighter for

her being in it, I know. And when you saw the Custom House officers

look at me, as though they were piercing me through, what was your

conduct? Shameful. You twittered about and fidgeted, and flushed up

as if I really WAS a smuggler.

"SO I WAS?

"What had that to do with it? It wasn't the part of a husband, I

think, to fidget in that way, and show it.

"YOU COULDN'T HELP IT?

"Humph! And you call yourself a person of strong mind, I believe?

One of the lords of the creation! Ha! ha! couldn't help it!

"But I may do all I can to save the money, and this is always my

reward. Yes, Mr. Caudle; I shall save a great deal.

"HOW MUCH?

"I sha'n't tell you: I know your meanness--you'd want to stop it out

of the house allowance. No: it's nothing to you where I got the

money from to buy so many things. The money was my own. Well, and

if it was yours first, that's nothing to do with it. No; I haven't

saved it out of the puddings. But it's always the woman who saves

who's despised. It's only your fine-lady wives who're properly

thought of. If I was to ruin you, Caudle, then you'd think something

of me.

"I sha'n't go to sleep. It's very well for you, who're no sooner in

bed than you're fast as a church; but I can't sleep in that way.

It's my mind keeps me awake. And after all, I do feel so happy to-

night, it's very hard I can't enjoy my thoughts.

"NO: I CAN'T THINK IN SILENCE!

"There's much enjoyment in that, to be sure! I've no doubt now you

could listen to Miss Prettyman--oh, I don't care, I will speak. It

was a little more than odd, I think, that she should be on the jetty

when the boat came in. Ha! she'd been looking for you all the

morning with a telescope, I've no doubt--she's bold enough for

anything. And then how she sneered and giggled when she saw me,--and

said 'how fat I'd got:' like her impudence, I think. What?

"WELL SHE MIGHT?

"But I know what she wanted; yes--she'd have liked to have had me

searched. She laughed on purpose.

"I only wish I'd taken two of the dear girls with me. What things I

could have stitched about 'em! No--I'm not ashamed of myself to make

my innocent children smugglers: the more innocent they looked, the

better; but there you are with what you call your principles again;

as if it wasn't given to everybody by nature to smuggle. I'm sure of

it--it's born with us. And nicely I've cheated 'em this day. Lace,

and velvet, and silk stockings, and other things,--to say nothing of

the tumblers and decanters. No: I didn't look as if I wanted a

direction, for fear somebody should break me. That's another of what

you call your jokes; but you should keep 'em for those who like 'em.

I don't.

"WHAT HAVE I MADE, AFTER ALL?

"I've told you--you shall never, never know. Yes, I know you'd been

fined a hundred pounds if they'd searched me; but I never meant that

they should. I daresay you wouldn't smuggle--oh no! you don't think

it worth your while. You're quite a conjuror, you are, Caudle. Ha!

ha! ha!

"WHAT AM I LAUGHING AT?

"Oh, you little know--such a clever creature! Ha! ha! Well, now,

I'll tell you. I knew what an unaccommodating animal you were, so I

made you smuggle whether or not.

"HOW?

"Why, when you were out at the Cafe, I got your great rough coat, and

if I didn't stitch ten yards of best black velvet under the lining

I'm a sinful woman! And to see how innocent you looked when the

officers walked round and round you! It was a happy moment, Caudle,

to see you.

"What do you call it?

"A SHAMEFUL TRICK--UNWORTHY OF A WIFE? I COULDN'T CARE MUCH FOR YOU?

"As if I didn't prove that by trusting you with ten yards of velvet.

But I don't care what you say: I've saved everything--all but that

beautiful English novel, that I've forgot the name of. And if they

didn't take it out of my hand, and chopped it to bits like so much

dog's-meat.

"SERVED ME RIGHT?

"And when I so seldom buy a book! No: I don't see how it served me

right. If you can buy the same book in France for four shillings

that people here have the impudence to ask more than a guinea for--

well, if they DO steal it, that's their affair, not ours. As if

there was anything in a book to steal!

"And now, Caudle, when are you going home? What?

"OUR TIME ISN'T UP?

"That's nothing to do with it. If we even lose a week's lodging--and

we mayn't do that--we shall save it again in living. But you're such

a man! Your home's the last place with you. I'm sure I don't get a

wink of a night, thinking what may happen. Three fires last week;

and any one might as well have been at our house as not.

"NO--THEY MIGHTN'T?

"Well, you know what I mean--but you're such a man!

"I'm sure, too, we've had quite enough of this place. But there's no

keeping you out of the libraries, Caudle. You're getting quite a

gambler. And I don't think it's a nice example to set your children,

raffling as you do for French clocks, and I don't know what. But

that's not the worst; you never win anything. Oh, I forgot. Yes; a

needle-case, that under my nose you gave to Miss Prettyman. A nice

thing for a married man to make presents: and to such a creature as

that, too! A needle-case! I wonder whenever she has a needle in HER

hand!

"I know I shall feel ill with anxiety if I stop here. Nobody left in

the house but that Mrs. Closepeg. And she is such a stupid woman.

It was only last night that I dreamt I saw our cat quite a skeleton,

and the canary stiff on its back at the bottom of the cage. You

know, Caudle, I'm never happy when I'm away from home; and yet you

will stay here. No, home's my comfort! I never want to stir over

the threshold, and you know it. If thieves were to break in, what

could that Mrs. Closepeg do against 'em? And so, Caudle, you'll go

home on Saturday? Our dear--dear home! On Saturday, Caudle?"

"What I answered," says Caudle, "I forget; but I know that on the

Saturday we were once again shipped on board the 'Red Rover'."

LECTURE XXVIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS RETURNED HOME. THE HOUSE (OF COURSE)

"NOT FIT TO BE SEEN." MR. CAUDLE, IN SELF-DEFENCE, TAKES A BOOK

"After all, Caudle, it is something to get into one's own bed again.

I SHALL sleep to-night. What!

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"That's like your sneering; I know what you mean. Of course; I never

can think of making myself comfortable, but you wound my feelings.

If you cared for your own bed like any other man, you'd not have

stayed out till this hour. Don't say that I drove you out of the

house as soon as we came in it. I only just spoke about the dirt and

the dust,--but the fact is, you'd be happy in a pig-sty! I thought I

could have trusted that Mrs. Closepeg with untold gold; and did you

only see the hearthrug? When we left home there was a tiger in it:

I should like to know who could make out the tiger, now? Oh, it's

very well for you to swear at the tiger, but swearing won't revive

the rug again. Else you might swear.

"You could go out and make yourself comfortable at your club. You

little know how many windows are broken. How many do you think? No:

I sha'n't tell you to-morrow--you shall know now. I'm sure! Talking

about getting health at Margate; all my health went away directly I

went into the kitchen. There's dear mother's china bowl cracked in

two places. I could have sat down and cried when I saw it: a bowl I

can recollect when I was a child. Eh?

"I SHOULD HAVE LOCKED IT UP, THEN?

"Yes: that's your feeling for anything of mine. I only wish it had

been your punch-bowl; but, thank goodness! I think that's chipped.

"Well, you haven't answered about the windows--you can't guess how

many?

"YOU DON'T CARE?

"Well, if nobody caught cold but you, it would be little matter. Six

windows clean out, and three cracked!

"YOU CAN'T HELP IT?

"I should like to know where the money's to come from to mend 'em!

They sha'n't be mended, that's all. Then you'll see how respectable

the house will look. But I know very well what you think. Yes;

you're glad of it. You think that this will keep me at home--but

I'll never stir out again. Then you can go to the sea-side by

yourself; then, perhaps, you can be happy with Miss Prettyman?--Now,

Caudle, if you knock the pillow with your fist in that way, I'll get

up. It's very odd that I can't mention that person's name but you

begin to fight the bolster, and do I don't know what. There must be

something in it, or you wouldn't kick about so. A guilty conscience

needs no--but you know what I mean.

"She wasn't coming to town for a week; and then, of a sudden, she'd

had a letter. I dare say she had. And then, as she said, it would

be company for her to come with us. No doubt. She thought I should

be ill again, and down in the cabin, but with all her art, she does

not know the depth of me--quite. Not but what I was ill; though,

like a brute, you wouldn't see it.

"What do you say?

"GOOD-NIGHT, LOVE?

"Yes: you can be very tender, I dare say--like all of your sex--to

suit your own ends; but I can't go to sleep with my head full of the

house. The fender in the parlour will never come to itself again. I

haven't counted the knives yet, but I've made up my mind that half of

'em are lost. No: I don't always think the worst; no, and I don't

make myself unhappy before the time; but of course that's my thanks

for caring about your property. If there aren't spiders in the

curtains as big as nutmegs, I'm a wicked creature. Not a broom has

the whole place seen since I've been away. But as soon as I get up,

won't I rummage the house out, that's all! I hadn't the heart to

look at my pickles; but for all I left the door locked, I'm sure the

jars have been moved. Yes; you can swear at pickles when you're in

bed; but nobody makes more noise about 'em when you want 'em.

"I only hope they've been to the wine-cellar: then you may know what

my feelings are. That poor cat, too--What?

"YOU HATE CATS?

"Yes, poor thing! because she's my favourite--that's it. If that cat

could only speak--What?

"IT ISN'T NECESSARY?

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle: but if that cat could only

speak, she'd tell me how she's been cheated. Poor thing! I know

where the money's gone to that I left for her milk--I know. Why,

what have you got there, Mr. Caudle? A book? What!

"IF YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO SLEEP, YOU'LL READ?

"Well, now it is come to something! If that isn't insulting a wife

to bring a book to bed, I don't know what wedlock is. But you

sha'n't read, Caudle; no, you sha'n't; not while I've strength to get

up and put out a candle.

"And that's like your feelings! You can think a great deal of

trumpery books; yes, you can't think too much of the stuff that's put

into print; but for what's real and true about you, why, you've the

heart of a stone. I should like to know what that book's about.

What!

"MILTON'S 'PARADISE LOST'?

"I thought some rubbish of the sort--something to insult me. A nice

book, I think, to read in bed; and a very respectable person he was

who wrote it.

"WHAT DO I KNOW OF HIM?

"Much more than you think. A very pretty fellow, indeed, with his

six wives. What?

"HE HADN'T SIX--HE'D ONLY THREE?

"That's nothing to do with it; but of course you'll take his part.

Poor women! A nice time they had with him, I dare say! And I've no

doubt, Mr. Caudle, you'd like to follow Mr. Milton's example; else

you wouldn't read the stuff he wrote. But you don't use me as he

treated the poor souls who married him. Poets, indeed! I'd make a

law against any of 'em having wives, except upon paper; for goodness

help the dear creatures tied to them! Like innocent moths lured by a

candle! Talking of candles, you don't know that the lamp in the

passage is split to bits! I say you don't--do you hear me, Mr.

Caudle? Won't you answer? Do you know where you are? What?

"IN THE GARDEN OF EDEN?

"Are you? Then you've no business there at this time of night."

"And saying this," writes Caudle, "she scrambled from the bed and put

out the night."

LECTURE XXIX--MRS. CAUDLE THINKS "THE TIME HAS COME TO HAVE A COTTAGE

OUT OF TOWN"

"Oh, Caudle, you ought to have had something nice to-night; for

you're not well, love--I know you're not. Ha! that's like you men--

so headstrong! You will have it that nothing ails you; but I can

tell, Caudle. The eye of a wife--and such a wife as I've been to

you--can at once see whether a husband's well or not. You've been

turning like tallow all the week; and what's more, you eat nothing

now. It makes me melancholy to see you at a joint. I don't say

anything at dinner before the children; but I don't feel the less.

No, no; you're not very well; and you're not as strong as a horse.

Don't deceive yourself--nothing of the sort. No, and you don't eat

as much as ever: and if you do, you don't eat with a relish, I'm

sure of that. You can't deceive me there.

"But I know what's killing you. It's the confinement; it's the bad

air you breathe; it's the smoke of London. Oh yes, I know your old

excuse: you never found the air bad before. Perhaps not. But as

people grow older, and get on in trade--and, after all, we've nothing

to complain of, Caudle--London air always disagrees with 'em.

Delicate health comes with money: I'm sure of it. What a colour you

had once, when you'd hardly a sixpence; and now, look at you!

"'Twould add thirty years to your life--and think what a blessing

that would be to me; not that I shall live a tenth part of the time--

thirty years, if you'd take a nice little house somewhere at Brixton.

"YOU HATE BRIXTON?

"I must say it, Caudle, that's so like you: any place that's really

genteel you can't abide. Now Brixton and Baalam Hill I think

delightful. So select! There, nobody visits nobody, unless they're

somebody. To say nothing of the delightful pews that make the

churches so respectable!

"However, do as you like. If you won't go to Brixton, what do you

say to Clapham Common? Oh, that's a very fine story! Never tell me!

No; you wouldn't be left alone, a Robinson Crusoe with wife and

children, because you're in the retail way. What?

"THE RETIRED WHOLESALES NEVER VISIT THE RETIRED RETAILS AT CLAPHAM?

"Ha! that's only your old sneering at the world, Mr. Caudle; but I

don't believe it. And after all, people should keep to their

station, or what was this life made for? Suppose a tallow-merchant

does keep himself above a tallow-chandler,--I call it only a proper

pride. What?

"YOU CALL IT THE ARISTOCRACY OF FAT?

"I don't know what you mean by 'aristocracy'; but I suppose it's only

another of your dictionary words, that's hardly worth the finding

out.

"What do you say to Hornsey or Muswell Hill? Eh?

"TOO HIGH?

"What a man you are! Well, then--Battersea?

"TOO LOW?

"You're an aggravating creature, Caudle, you must own that!

Hampstead, then?

"TOO COLD?

"Nonsense; it would brace you up like a drum,--Caudle; and that's

what you want. But you don't deserve anybody to think of your health

or your comforts either. There's some pretty spots, I'm told, about

Fulham. Now, Caudle, I won't have you say a word against Fulham.

That must be a sweet place: dry and healthy, and every comfort of

life about it--else is it likely that a bishop would live there?

Now, Caudle, none of your heathen principles--I won't hear 'em. I

think what satisfies a bishop ought to content you; but the politics

you learn at that club are dreadful. To hear you talk of bishops--

well, I only hope nothing will happen to you, for the sake of the

dear children!

"A nice little house and a garden! I know it--I was born for a

garden! There's something about it makes one feel so innocent. My

heart somehow always opens and shuts at roses. And then what nice

currant wine we could make! And again, get 'em as fresh as you will,

there's no radishes like your own radishes! They're ten times as

sweet! What?

"AND TWENTY TIMES AS DEAR?

"Yes; there you go! Anything that I fancy, you always bring up the

expense.

"No, Mr. Caudle, I should not be tired of it in a month. I tell you

I was made for the country. But here you've kept me--and much you've

cared about my health--here you've kept me in this filthy London,

that I hardly know what grass is made of. Much you care for your

wife and family to keep 'em here to be all smoked like bacon. I can

see it--it's stopping the children's growth; they'll be dwarfs, and

have their father to thank for it. If you'd the heart of a parent,

you couldn't bear to look at their white faces. Dear little Dick! he

makes no breakfast. What!

"HE ATE SIX SLICES THIS MORNING?

"A pretty father you must be to count 'em. But that's nothing to

what the dear child could do, if, like other children, he'd a fair

chance.

"Ha! and when we could be so comfortable! But it's always the case,

you never will be comfortable with me. How nice and fresh you'd come

up to business every morning; and what pleasure it would be for me to

put a tulip or a pink in your button-hole, just, as I may say, to

ticket you from the country.

"But then, Caudle, you never were like any other man! But I know why

you won't leave London. Yes, I know. Then, you think, you couldn't

go to your filthy club--that's it. Then you'd be obliged to be at

home, like any other decent man. Whereas you might, if you liked,

enjoy yourself under your own apple-tree, and I'm sure I should never

say anything about your tobacco out of doors. My only wish is to

make you happy, Caudle, and you won't let me do it.

"You don't speak, love? Shall I look about a house to-morrow? It

will be a broken day with me, for I'm going out to have little pet's

ears bored--What?

"YOU WON'T HAVE HER EARS BORED?

"And why not, I should like to know?

"IT'S A BARBAROUS, SAVAGE CUSTOM?

"Oh, Mr. Caudle! the sooner you go away from the world, and live in a

cave, the better. You're getting not fit for Christian society.

What next? My ears were bored and--What?

"SO ARE YOURS?

"I know what you mean--but that's nothing to do with it. My ears, I

say, were bored, and so were dear mother's, and grandmother's before

her; and I suppose there were no more savages in our family than in

yours, Mr. Caudle? Besides,--why should little pet's ears go naked

any more than any of her sisters'? They wear earrings; you never

objected before. What?

"YOU'VE LEARNED BETTER NOW?

"Yes, that's all with your filthy politics again. You'd shake all

the world up in a dice-box, if you'd your way: not that you care a

pin about the world, only you'd like to get a better throw for

yourself,--that's all. But little pet SHALL be bored, and don't

think to prevent it.

"I suppose she's to be married some day, as well as her sisters? And

who'll look at a girl without earrings, I should like to know? If

you knew anything of the world, you'd know what a nice diamond

earring will sometimes do--when one can get it--before this. But I

know why you can't abide earrings now: Miss Prettyman doesn't wear

'em; she would--I've no doubt--if she could only get 'em. Yes, it's

Miss Prettyman who -

"There, Caudle, now be quiet, and I'll say no more about pet's ears

at present. We'll talk when you're reasonable. I don't want to put

you out of temper, goodness knows! And so, love, about the cottage?

What?

"'TWILL BE SO FAR FROM BUSINESS?

"But it needn't be far, dearest. Quite a nice distance; so that on

your late nights you may always be at home, have your supper, get to

bed, and all by eleven. Eh,--sweet one?"

"I don't know what I answered," says Caudle, "but I know this: in

less than a fortnight I found myself in a sort of a green bird-cage

of a house, which my wife--gentle satirist--insisted upon calling

'The Turtle Dovery.'"

LECTURE XXX--MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS OF THE "TURTLE DOVERY." DISCOVERS

BLACK-BEETLES. THINKS IT "NOTHING BUT RIGHT" THAT CAUDLE SHOULD SET

UP A CHAISE

"Tush! You'd never have got me into this wilderness of a place, Mr.

Caudle, if I'd only have thought what it was. Yes, that's right:

throw it in my teeth that it was my choice--that's manly, isn't it?

When I saw the place the sun was out, and it looked beautiful--now,

it's quite another thing. No, Mr. Caudle; I don't expect you to

command the sun,--and if you talk about Joshua in that infidel way,

I'll leave the bed. No, sir; I don't expect the sun to be in your

power; but that's nothing to do with it. I talk about one thing, and

you always start another. But that's your art.

"I'm sure a woman might as well be buried alive as live here. In

fact, I am buried alive; I feel it. I stood at the window three

hours this blessed day, and saw nothing but the postman. No: it

isn't a pity that I hadn't something better to do; I had plenty: but

that's my business, Mr. Caudle. I suppose I'm to be mistress of my

own house? If not, I'd better leave it.

"And the very first night we were here, you know it, the black-

beetles came into the kitchen. If the place didn't seem spread all

over with a black cloth, I'm a story-teller. What are you coughing

at, Mr. Caudle? I see nothing to cough at. But that's just your way

of sneering. Millions of black-beetles! And as the clock strikes

eight, out they march. What?

"THEY'RE VERY PUNCTUAL?

"I know that. I only wish other people were half as punctual:

'twould save other people's money and other people's peace of mind.

You know I hate a black-beetle! No: I don't hate so many things.

But I do hate black-beetles, as I hate ill-treatment, Mr. Caudle.

And now I have enough of both, goodness knows!

"Last night they came into the parlour. Of course, in a night or

two, they'll walk up into the bedroom. They'll be here--regiments of

'em--on the quilt. But what do you care? Nothing of the sort ever

touches you: but you know how they come to me; and that's why you're

so quiet. A pleasant thing to have black-beetles in one's bed!

"WHY DON'T I POISON 'EM?

"A pretty matter, indeed, to have poison in the house! Much you must

think of the dear children. A nice place, too, to be called the

Turtle Dovery!

"DIDN'T I CHRISTEN IT MYSELF?

"I know that,--but then, I knew nothing of the black-beetles.

Besides, names of houses are for the world outside; not that anybody

passes to see ours. Didn't Mrs. Digby insist on calling their new

house 'Love-in-Idleness,' though everybody knew that that wretch

Digby was always beating her? Still, when folks read 'Rose Cottage'

on the wall, they seldom think of the lots of thorns that are inside.

In this world, Mr. Caudle, names are sometimes quite as good as

things.

"That cough again! You've got a cold, and you'll always be getting

one--for you'll always be missing the omnibus as you did on Tuesday,-

-and always be getting wet. No constitution can stand it, Caudle.

You don't know what I felt when I heard it rain on Tuesday, and

thought you might be in it. What?

"I'M VERY GOOD?

"Yes, I trust so: I try to be so, Caudle. And so, dear, I've been

thinking that we'd better keep a chaise.

"YOU CAN'T AFFORD IT, AND YOU WON'T?

"Don't tell me: I know you'd save money by it. I've been reckoning

what you lay out in omnibuses; and if you'd a chaise of your own--

besides the gentility of the thing--you'd be money in pocket. And

then, again, how often I could go with you to town,--and how, again,

I could call for you when you liked to be a little late at the club,

dear! Now you're obliged to be hurried away, I know it, when, if

you'd only a carriage of your own, you could stay and enjoy yourself.

And after your work you want enjoyment. Of course, I can't expect

you always to run home directly to me: and I don't, Caudle; and you

know it.

"A nice, neat, elegant little chaise. What?

"YOU'LL THINK OF IT?

"There's a love! You are a good creature, Caudle; and 'twill make me

so happy to think you don't depend upon an omnibus. A sweet little

carriage, with our own arms beautifully painted on the panels. What?

"ARMS ARE RUBBISH; AND YOU DON'T KNOW THAT YOU HAVE ANY?

"Nonsense: to be sure you have--and if not, of course they're to be

had for money. I wonder where Chalkpit's, the milkman's arms, came

from? I suppose you can buy 'em at the same place. He used to drive

a green cart; and now he's got a close yellow carriage, with two

large tortoise-shell cats, with their whiskers as if dipped in cream,

standing on their hind legs upon each door, with a heap of Latin

underneath. You may buy the carriage if you please, Mr. Caudle; but

unless your arms are there, you won't get me to enter it. Never!

I'm not going to look less than Mrs. Chalkpit.

"Besides, if you haven't arms, I'm sure my family have, and a wife's

arms are quite as good as a husband's. I'll write to-morrow to dear

mother, to know what we took for our family arms. What do you say?

What?

"A MANGLE IN A STONE KITCHEN PROPER?

"Mr. Caudle, you're always insulting my family--always: but you

shall not put me out of temper to-night. Still, if you don't like

our arms, find your own. I daresay you could have found 'em fast

enough, if you'd married Miss Prettyman. Well, I will be quiet; and

I won't mention that lady's name. A nice lady she is! I wonder how

much she spends in paint! Now, don't I tell you I won't say a word

more, and yet you will kick about!

"Well, we'll have the carriage and the family arms? No, I don't want

the family legs too. Don't be vulgar, Mr. Caudle. You might,

perhaps, talk in that way before you'd money in the Bank; but it

doesn't at all become you now. The carriage and the family arms!

We've a country house as well as the Chalkpits! and though they

praise their place for a little paradise, I dare say they've quite as

many blackbeetles as we have, and more too. The place quite looks

it!

"Our carriage and our arms! And you know, love, it won't cost much--

next to nothing--to put a gold band about Sam's hat on a Sunday. No:

I don't want a full-blown livery. At least, not just yet. I'm told

that Chalkpits dress their boy on a Sunday like a dragon-fly; and I

don't see why we shouldn't do what we like with our own Sam.

Nevertheless, I'll be content with a gold band, and a bit of pepper-

and-salt. No: I shall not cry out for plush next; certainly not.

But I will have a gold band, and -

"YOU WON'T; AND I KNOW IT?

"Oh yes! that's another of your crotchets, Mr Caudle; like nobody

else--you don't love liveries. I suppose when people buy their

sheets, or their tablecloths, or any other linen, they've a right to

mark what they like upon it, haven't they? Well, then? You buy a

servant, and you mark what you like upon him, and where's the

difference? None, that _I_ can see."

"Finally," says Caudle, "I compromised for a gig; but Sam did not

wear pepper-and-salt and a gold band."

LECTURE XXXI--MRS. CAUDLE COMPLAINS VERY BITTERLY THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS

"BROKEN HER CONFIDENCE."

"O you'll catch me, Mr. Caudle, telling you anything again. Now, I

don't want to have any noise: I don't wish you to put yourself in a

passion. All I say is this; never again do I open my lips to you

about anybody. No: if man and wife can't be one, why there's an end

of everything. Oh, you know well what I mean, Mr. Caudle: you've

broken my confidence in the most shameful, the most heartless way,

and I repeat it--I can never be again to you as I have been. No:

the little charm--it wasn't much--that remained about married life,

is gone for ever. Yes; the bloom's quite wiped off the plum now.

"Don't be such a hypocrite, Caudle; don't ask me what I mean! Mrs.

Badgerly has been here--more like a fiend, I'm sure, than a quiet

woman. I haven't done trembling yet! You know the state of my

nerves, too; you know--yes, sir, I HAD nerves when you married me;

and I haven't just found 'em out. Well, you've something to answer

for, I think. The Badgerlys are going to separate: she takes the

girls, and he the boys, and all through you. How you can lay your

head upon that pillow and think of going to sleep, I can't tell.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

"Well, you have a face to ask the question. Done? You've broken my

confidence, Mr. Caudle: you've taken advantage of my tenderness, my

trust in you as a wife--the more fool I for my pains!--and you've

separated a happy couple for ever. No; I'm not talking in the

clouds; I'm talking in your bed, the more my misfortune.

"Now, Caudle--yes, I shall sit up in the bed if I choose; I'm not

going to sleep till I have this properly explained; for Mrs. Badgerly

sha'n't lay her separation at my door. You won't deny that you were

at the club last night? No, bad as you are, Caudle--and though

you're my husband, I can't think you a good man; I try to do, but I

can't--bad as you are, you can't deny you were at the club. What?

"YOU DON'T DENY IT?

"That's what I say--you can't. And now answer me this question.

What did you say--before the whole world--of Mr. Badgerly's whiskers?

There's nothing to laugh at, Caudle; if you'd have seen that poor

woman to-day, you'd have a heart of stone to laugh. What did you say

of his whiskers? Didn't you tell everybody he dyed 'em? Didn't you

hold the candle up to 'em, as you said, to show the purple?

"TO BE SURE YOU DID?

"Ha! people who break jokes never care about breaking hearts.

Badgerly went home like a demon; called his wife a false woman:

vowed he'd never enter a bed again with her, and to show he was in

earnest, slept all night upon the sofa. He said it was the dearest

secret of his life; said she had told me; and that I had told you;

and that's how it has come out. What do you say?

"BADGERLY WAS RIGHT. I DID TELL YOU?

"I know I did: but when dear Mrs. Badgerly mentioned the matter to

me and a few friends, as we were all laughing at tea together, quite

in a confidential way--when she just spoke of her husband's whiskers,

and how long he was over 'em every morning--of course, poor soul! she

never thought it was to be talked of in the world again. Eh?

"THEN I HAD NO RIGHT TO TELL YOU OF IT?

"And that's the way I'm thanked for my confidence. Because I don't

keep a secret from you, but show you, I may say, my naked soul,

Caudle, that's how I'm rewarded. Poor Mrs. Badgerly--for all her

hard words--after she went away, I'm sure my heart quite bled for

her. What do you say, Mr. Caudle?

"SERVES HER RIGHT--SHE SHOULD HOLD HER TONGUE?

"Yes; that's like your tyranny--you'd never let a poor woman speak.

Eh--what, what, Mr. Caudle?

"That's a very fine speech, I dare say; and wives are very much

obliged to you, only there's not a bit of truth in it. No, we women

don't get together, and pick our husbands to pieces, just as

sometimes mischievous little girls rip up their dolls. That's an old

sentiment of yours, Mr. Caudle; but I'm sure you've no occasion to

say it of me. I hear a good deal of other people's husbands,

certainly; I can't shut my ears; I wish I could: but I never say

anything about you,--and I might, and you know it--and there's

somebody else that knows it, too. No: I sit still and say nothing;

what I have in my own bosom about you, Caudle, will be buried with

me. But I know what you think of wives. I heard you talking to Mr.

Prettyman, when you little thought I was listening, and you didn't

know much what you were saying--I heard you. 'My dear Prettyman,'

says you, 'when some women get talking, they club all their husbands'

faults together; just as children club their cakes and apples, to

make a common feast for the whole set.' Eh?

"YOU DON'T REMEMBER IT?

"But I do: and I remember, too, what brandy was left when Prettyman

left. 'Twould be odd if you could remember much about it, after

that.

"And now you've gone and separated man and wife, and I'm to be blamed

for it. You've not only carried misery into a family, but broken my

confidence. You've proved to me that henceforth I'm not to trust you

with anything, Mr. Caudle. No; I'll lock up whatever I know in my

own breast,--for now I find nobody, not even one's own husband, is to

be relied upon. From this moment, I may look upon myself as a

solitary woman. Now, it's no use your trying to go to sleep. What

do you say?

"YOU KNOW THAT?

"Very well. Now I want to ask you one question more. Eh?

"YOU WANT TO ASK ME ONE?

"Very well--go on--I'm not afraid to be catechised. I never dropped

a syllable that as a wife I ought to have kept to myself--no, I'm not

at all forgetting what I've said--and whatever you've got to ask me

speak out at once. No--I don't want you to spare me; all I want you

is to speak.

"YOU WILL SPEAK?

"Well then, do.

"What?

"WHO TOLD PEOPLE YOU'D A FALSE FRONT TOOTH?

"And is that all? Well, I'm sure--as if the world couldn't see it.

I know I did just mention it once, but then I thought everybody knew

it--besides, I was aggravated to do it; yes, aggravated. I remember

it was that very day, at Mrs. Badgerly's, when husbands' whiskers

came up. Well, after we'd done with them, somebody said something

about teeth. Whereupon, Miss Prettyman--a minx! she was born to

destroy the peace of families, I know she was: she was there; and if

I'd only known that such a creature was--no I'm not rambling, not at

all, and I'm coming to the tooth. To be sure, this is a great deal

you've got against me, isn't it? Well, somebody spoke about teeth,

when Miss Prettyman, with one of her insulting leers, said 'she

thought Mr. Caudle had the whitest teeth she ever HAD beheld.' Of

course my blood was up--every wife's would be: and I believe I might

have said, 'Yes, they were well enough; but when a young lady so very

much praised a married man's teeth, she perhaps didn't know that one

of the front ones was an elephant's.' Like her impudence!--I set HER

down for the rest of the evening. But I can see the humour you're in

to-night. You only came to bed to quarrel, and I'm not going to

indulge you. All I say is this, after the shameful mischief you've

made at the Badgerlys', you never break my confidence again. Never--

and now you know it."

Caudle hereupon writes--"And here she seemed inclined to sleep. Not

for one moment did I think to prevent her."

LECTURE XXXII--MRS. CAUDLE DISCOURSES OF MAIDS-OF-ALL-WORK AND MAIDS

IN GENERAL. MR. CAUDLE'S "INFAMOUS BEHAVIOUR" TEN YEARS AGO

"There now, it isn't my intention to say a word to-night, Mr. Caudle.

No; I want to go to sleep, if I can; for after what I've gone through

to-day, and with the headache I've got,--and if I haven't left my

smelling-salts on the mantelpiece, on the right-hand corner just as

you go into the room--nobody could miss it--I say, nobody could miss

it--in a little green bottle, and--well, there you lie like a stone,

and I might perish and you wouldn't move. Oh, my poor head! But it

may open and shut, and what do you care?

"Yes, that's like your feeling, just. I want my salts, and you tell

me there's nothing like being still for a headache. Indeed? But I'm

not going to be still; so don't you think it. That's just how a

woman's put upon. But I know your aggravation--I know your art. You

think to keep me quiet about that minx Kitty,--your favourite, sir!

Upon my life, I'm not to discharge my own servant without--but she

shall go. If I had to do all the work myself, she shouldn't stop

under my roof. I can see how she looks down upon me. I can see a

great deal, Mr. Caudle, that I never choose to open my lips about--

but I can't shut my eyes. Perhaps it would have been better for my

peace and mind if I always could. Don't say that. I'm not a foolish

woman, and I know very well what I'm saying. I suppose you think I

forget THAT Rebecca? I know it's ten years ago that she lived with

us--but what's that to do with it? Things aren't the less true for

being old, I suppose. No; and your conduct, Mr. Caudle, at that

time--if it was a hundred years ago--I should never forget. What?

"I SHALL ALWAYS BE THE SAME SILLY WOMAN?

"I hope I shall--I trust I shall always have my eyes about me in my

own house. Now, don't think of going to sleep, Caudle; because, as

you've brought this up about that Rebecca, you shall hear me out.

Well, I do wonder that you can name her! Eh?

"YOU DIDN'T NAME HER?

"That's nothing at all to do with it; for I know just as well what

you think, as if you did. I suppose you'll say that you didn't drink

a glass of wine to her?

"NEVER?

"So you said at the time, but I've thought of it for ten long years,

and the more I've thought the surer I am of it. And at that very

time--if you please to recollect--at that very time little Jack was a

baby. I shouldn't have so much cared but for that; but he was hardly

running alone, when you nodded and drank a glass of wine to that

creature. No; I'm not mad, and I'm not dreaming. I saw how you did

it,--and the hypocrisy made it worse and worse. I saw you when the

creature was just behind my chair; you took up a glass of wine, and

saying to me, 'Margaret,' and then lifting up your eyes at the bold

minx, and saying 'my dear,' as if you wanted me to believe that you

spoke only to me, when I could see you laugh at her behind me. And

at that time little Jack wasn't on his feet. What do you say?

"HEAVEN FORGIVE ME?

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, it's you that ought to ask for that: I'm safe

enough, I am: it's you who should ask to be forgiven.

"No, I wouldn't slander a saint--and I didn't take away the girl's

character for nothing. I know she brought an action for what I said;

and I know you had to pay damages for what you call my tongue--I well

remember all that. And serve you right; if you hadn't laughed at

her, it wouldn't have happened. But if you will make free with such

people, of course you're sure to suffer for it. 'Twould have served

you right if the lawyer's bill had been double. Damages, indeed!

Not that anybody's tongue could have damaged her!

"And now, Mr. Caudle, you're the same man you were ten years ago.

What?

"YOU HOPE SO?

"The more shame for you. At your time of life, with all your

children growing up about you, to -

"WHAT AM I TALKING OF?

"I know very well; and so would you, if you had any conscience, which

you haven't. When I say I shall discharge Kitty, you say she's a

very good servant, and I sha'n't get a better. But I know why you

think her good; you think her pretty, and that's enough for you; as

if girls who work for their bread have any business to be pretty,--

which she isn't. Pretty servants, indeed! going mincing about with

their fal-lal faces, as if even the flies would spoil 'em. But I

know what a bad man you are--now, it's no use your denying it; for

didn't I overhear you talking to Mr. Prettyman, and didn't you say

that you couldn't bear to have ugly servants about you? I ask you,--

didn't you say that?

"PERHAPS YOU DID?

"You don't blush to confess it? If your principles, Mr. Caudle,

aren't enough to make a woman's blood run cold!

"Oh, yes! you've talked that stuff again and again; and once I might

have believed it; but I know a little more of you now. You like to

see pretty servants, just as you like to see pretty statues, and

pretty pictures, and pretty flowers, and anything in nature that's

pretty, just, as you say, for the eye to feed upon. Yes; I know your

eyes,--very well. I know what they were ten years ago; for shall I

ever forget that glass of wine when little Jack was in arms? I don't

care if it was a thousand years ago, it's as fresh as yesterday, and

I never will cease to talk of it. When you know me, how can you ask

it?

"And now you insist upon keeping Kitty, when there's no having a bit

of crockery for her? That girl would break the Bank of England--I

know she would--if she was to put her hand upon it. But what's a

whole set of blue china to her beautiful blue eyes? I know that's

what you mean, though you don't say it.

"Oh, you needn't lie groaning there, for you don't think I shall ever

forget Rebecca. Yes,--it's very well for you to swear at Rebecca

now,--but you didn't swear at her then, Mr. Caudle, I know.

'Margaret, my dear!' Well, how you can have the face to look at me -

"YOU DON'T LOOK AT ME?

"The more shame for you.

"I can only say, that either Kitty leaves the house, or I do. Which

is it to be, Mr. Caudle? Eh?

"YOU DON'T CARE? BOTH?

"But you're not going to get rid of me in that manner, I can tell

you. But for that trollop--now, you may swear and rave as you like -

"YOU DON'T INTEND TO SAY A WORD MORE?

"Very well; it's no matter what you say--her quarter's up on Tuesday,

and go she shall. A soup-plate and a basin went yesterday.

"A soup-plate and a basin, and when I've the headache as I have, Mr.

Caudle, tearing me to pieces! But I shall never be well in this

world--never. A soup-plate and a basin!"

"She slept," writes Caudle, "and poor Kitty left on Tuesday."

LECTURE XXXIII--MRS. CAUDLE HAS DISCOVERED THAT CAUDLE IS A RAILWAY

DIRECTOR

"When I took up the paper to-day, Caudle, you might have knocked me

down with a feather! Now, don't be a hypocrite--you know what's the

matter. And when you haven't a bed to lie upon, and are brought to

sleep upon coal sacks--and then I can tell you, Mr. Caudle, you may

sleep by yourself--then you'll know what's the matter. Now, I've

seen your name, and don't deny it. Yes,--the Eel-Pie Island Railway-

-and among the Directors, Job Caudle, Esq., of the Turtle-Dovery,

and--no, I won't be quiet. It isn't often--goodness knows!--that I

speak; but seeing what I do, I won't be silent.

"WHAT DO I SEE?

"Why, there, Mr. Caudle, at the foot of the bed, I see all the

blessed children in tatters--I see you in a gaol, and the carpets

hung out of the windows.

"And now I know why you talk in your sleep about a broad and narrow

gauge! I couldn't think what was on your mind--but now it's out.

Ha! Mr. Caudle, there's something about a broad and narrow way that

I wish you'd remember--but you're turned quite a heathen: yes, you

think of nothing but money now.

"DON'T I LIKE MONEY?

"To be sure I do; but then I like it when I'm certain of it; no risks

for me. Yes, it's all very well to talk about fortunes made in no

time: they're like shirts made in no time--it's ten to one if they

hang long together.

"And now it's plain enough why you can't eat or drink, or sleep, or

do anything. All your mind's allotted into railways; for you shan't

make me believe that Eel-Pie Island's the only one. Oh, no! I can

see by the looks of you. Why, in a little time, if you haven't as

many lines in your face as there are lines laid down! Every one of

your features seems cut up--and all seem travelling from one another.

Six months ago, Caudle, you hadn't a wrinkle; yes, you'd a cheek as

smooth as any china, and now your face is like the Map of England.

"At your time of life, too! You, who were for always going small and

sure! You to make heads-and-tails of your money in this way! It's

that stock-broker's dog at Flam Cottage--he's bitten you, I'm sure of

it. You're not fit to manage your own property now; and I should

only be acting the part of a good wife if I were to call in the mad-

doctors.

"Well, I shall never know rest any more now. There won't be a soul

knock at the door after this that I sha'n't think it's the man coming

to take possession. 'Twill be something for the Chalkpits to laugh

at when we're sold up. I think I see 'em here, bidding for all our

little articles of bigotry and virtue, and--what are you laughing at?

"THEY'RE NOT BIGOTRY AND VIRTUE; BUT BIJOUTERIE AND VERTU?

"It's all the same: only you're never so happy as when you're taking

me up.

"If I can tell what's coming to the world, I'm a sinner! Everybody's

for turning their farthings into double sovereigns and cheating their

neighbours of the balance. And you, too--you're beside yourself,

Caudle--I'm sure of it. I've watched you when you thought me fast

asleep. And then you've lain, and whispered and whispered, and then

hugged yourself, and laughed at the bed-posts, as if you'd seen 'em

turned to sovereign gold. I do believe that you sometimes think the

patchwork quilt is made of thousand-pound bank-notes.

"Well, when we're brought to the Union, then you'll find out your

mistake. But it will be a poor satisfaction for me every night to

tell you of it. What, Mr. Caudle?

"THEY WON'T LET ME TELL YOU OF IT?

"And you call that 'some comfort'? And after the wife I've been to

you! But now I recollect. I think I've heard you praise that Union

before; though, like a fond fool as I've always been, I never once

suspected the reason of it.

"And now, of course, day and night, you'll never be at home. No,

you'll live and sleep at Eel-Pie Island! I shall be left alone with

nothing but my thoughts, thinking when the broker will come, and

you'll be with your brother directors. I may slave and I toil to

save sixpences; and you'll be throwing away hundreds. And then the

expensive tastes you've got! Nothing good enough for you now. I'm

sure you sometimes think yourself King Solomon. But that comes of

making money--if, indeed, you have made any--without earning it. No;

I don't talk nonsense: people CAN make money without earning it.

And when they do, why it's like taking a lot of spirits at one

draught; it gets into their head, and they don't know what they're

about. And you're in that state now, Mr. Caudle: I'm sure of it, by

the way of you. There's a tipsiness of the pocket as well as of the

stomach--and you're in that condition at this very moment.

"Not that I should so much mind--that is, if you HAVE made money--if

you'd stop at the Eel-Pie line. But I know what these things are:

they're like treacle to flies: when men are well in 'em, they can't

get out of 'em: or, if they do, it's often without a feather to fly

with. No: if you've really made money by the Eel-Pie line, and will

give it to me to take care of for the dear children, why, perhaps,

love, I'll say no more of the matter. What?

"NONSENSE?

"Yes, of course: I never ask you for money, but that's the word.

"And now, catch you stopping at the Eel-Pie line! Oh no; I know your

aggravating spirit. In a day or two I shall see another fine

flourish in the paper, with a proposal for a branch from Eel-Pie

Island to the Chelsea Bun-house. Give you a mile of rail, and--I

know you men--you'll take a hundred. Well, if it didn't make me

quiver to read that stuff in the paper,--and your name to it! But I

suppose it was Mr. Prettyman's work; for his precious name's among

'em. How you tell the people 'that eel-pies are now become an

essential element of civilisation'--I learnt all the words by heart,

that I might say 'em to you--'that the Eastern population of London

are cut off from the blessings of such a necessary--and that by means

of the projected line eel-pies will be brought home to the business

and bosoms of Ratcliff Highway and the adjacent dependencies.' Well,

when you men--lords of the creation, as you call yourselves--do get

together to make up a company, or anything of the sort--is there any

story-book can come up to you? And so you look solemnly in one

another's faces, and, never so much as moving the corners of your

mouths, pick one another's pockets. No, I'm not using hard words,

Mr. Caudle--but only the words that's proper.

"And this I MUST say. Whatever you've got, I'm none the better for

it. You never give me any of your Eel-Pie shares. What do you say?

"YOU WILL GIVE ME SOME?

"Not I--I'll have nothing to do with any wickedness of the kind. If,

like any other husband, you choose to throw a heap of money into my

lap--what?

"YOU'LL THINK OF IT? WHEN THE EEL-PIES GO UP?

"Then I know what they're worth--they'll never fetch a farthing."

"She was suddenly silent"--writes Caudle--"and I was sinking into

sleep, when she elbowed me, and cried, 'Caudle, do you think they'll

be up to-morrow?'"

LECTURE XXXIV--MRS. CAUDLE, SUSPECTING THAT MR. CAUDLE HAS MADE HIS

WILL, IS "ONLY ANXIOUS, AS A WIFE," TO KNOW ITS PROVISIONS

"There, I always said you'd a strong mind when you liked, Caudle; and

what you've just been doing proves it. Some people won't make a

will, because they think they must die directly afterwards. Now,

you're above that, love, aren't you? Nonsense; you know very well

what I mean. I know your will's made, for Scratcherly told me so.

What?

"YOU DON'T BELIEVE IT?

"Well, I'm sure! That's a pretty thing for a man to say to his wife.

I know he's too much of a man of business to talk; but I suppose

there's a way of telling things without speaking them. And when I

put the question to him, lawyer as he is, he hadn't the face to deny

it.

"To be sure, it can be of no consequence to me whether your will is

made or not. I shall not be alive, Mr. Caudle, to want anything: I

shall be provided for a long time before your will's of any use. No,

Mr. Caudle, I sha'n't survive you: and--though a woman's wrong to

let her affection for a man be known, for then she's always taken

advantage of--though I know it's foolish and weak to say so, still I

don't want to survive you. How should I? No, no; don't say that:

I'm not good for a hundred--I sha'n't see you out, and another

husband too. What a gross idea, Caudle! To imagine I'd ever think

of marrying again. No--never! What?

"THAT'S WHAT WE ALL SAY?

"Not at all; quite the reverse. To me the very idea of such a thing

is horrible, and always was. Yes, I know very well that some do

marry again--but what they're made of I'm sure I can't tell. Ugh!

"There are men, I know, who leave their property in such a way that

their widows, to hold it, must keep widows. Now, if there is

anything in the world that is mean and small, it is that. Don't you

think so, too, Caudle? Why don't you speak, love? That's so like

you! I never want a little quiet, rational talk, but you want to go

to sleep. But you never were like any other man! What?

"HOW DO I KNOW?

"There now--that's so like your aggravating way. I never open my

lips upon a subject but you try to put me off. I've no doubt when

Miss Prettyman speaks, you can answer HER properly enough. There you

are, again! Upon my life, it IS odd; but I never can in the most

innocent way mention that person's name that -

"WHY CAN'T I LEAVE HER ALONE?

"I'm sure--with all my heart! Who wants to talk about her? I don't:

only you always will say something that's certain to bring up her

name.

"What was I saying, Caudle? Oh, about the way some men bind their

widows. To my mind, there is nothing so little. When a man forbids

his wife to marry again without losing what he leaves--it's what I

call selfishness after death. Mean to a degree! It's like taking

his wife into the grave with him. Eh?

"YOU NEVER WANT TO DO THAT?

"No, I'm sure of that, love: you're not the man to tie a woman up in

that mean manner. A man who'd do that would have his widow burnt

with him, if he could--just as those monsters, that call themselves

men, do in the Indies.

"However, it's no matter to me how you've made your will; but it may

be to your second wife. What?

"I SHALL NEVER GIVE YOU A CHANCE?

"Ha! you don't know my constitution after all, Caudle. I'm not at

all the woman I was. I say nothing about 'em, but very often you

don't know my feelings. And as we're on the subject, dearest, I have

only one favour to ask. When you marry again--now it's no use your

saying that. After the comforts you've known of marriage--what are

you sighing at, dear?--after the comforts, you must marry again--now

don't forswear yourself in that violent way, taking an oath that you

know you must break--you couldn't help it, I'm sure of it; and I know

you better than you know yourself. Well, all I ask is, love, because

it's only for your sake, and it would make no difference to me then--

how should it?--but all I ask is, don't marry Miss Pret--There!

there! I've done: I won't say another word about it; but all I ask

is, don't. After the way you've been thought of, and after the

comforts you've been used to, Caudle, she wouldn't be the wife for

you. Of course I could then have no interest in the matter--you

might marry the Queen of England, for what it would be to me then--

I'm only anxious about you. Mind, Caudle, I'm not saying anything

against her; not at all; but there's a flightiness in her manner--I

dare say, poor thing, she means no harm, and it may be, as the saying

is, only her manner after all--still, there is a flightiness about

her that, after what you've been used to, would make you very

wretched. Now, if I may boast of anything, Caudle, it is my

propriety of manner the whole of my life. I know that wives who're

very particular aren't thought as well of as those who're not--still,

it's next to nothing to be virtuous, if people don't seem so. And

virtue, Caudle--no, I'm not going to preach about virtue, for I never

do. No; and I don't go about with my virtue, like a child with a

drum, making all sorts of noises with it. But I know your

principles. I shall never forget what I once heard you say to

Prettyman: and it's no excuse that you'd taken so much wine you

didn't know what you were saying at the time; for wine brings out

man's wickedness, just as fire brings out spots of grease.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?

"Why, you said this: --'Virtue's a beautiful thing in women, when

they don't make so much noise about it: but there's some women who

think virtue was given 'em, as claws were given to cats'--yes, cats

was the word--'to do nothing but scratch with.' That's what you

said.

"YOU DON'T RECOLLECT A SYLLABLE OF IT?

"No, that's it; when you're in that dreadful state, you recollect

nothing: but it's a good thing I do.

"But we won't talk of that, love--that's all over: I dare say you

meant nothing. But I'm glad you agree with me, that the man who'd

tie up his widow not to marry again, is a mean man. It makes me

happy that you've the confidence in me to say that.

"YOU NEVER SAID IT?

"That's nothing to do with it--you've just as good as said it. No:

when a man leaves all his property to his wife, without binding her

hands from marrying again, he shows what a dependence he has upon her

love. He proves to all the world what a wife she's been to him; and

how, after his death, he knows she'll grieve for him. And then, of

course, a second marriage never enters her head. But when she only

keeps his money so long as she keeps a widow, why, she's aggravated

to take another husband. I'm sure of it; many a poor woman has been

driven into wedlock again, only because she was spited into it by her

husband's will. It's only natural to suppose it. If I thought,

Caudle, you could do such a thing, though it would break my heart to

do it,--yet, though you were dead and gone, I'd show you I'd a

spirit, and marry again directly. Not but what it's ridiculous my

talking in such a way, as I shall go long before you; still, mark my

words, and don't provoke me with any will of that sort, or I'd do it-

-as I'm a living woman in this bed to-night, I'd do it."

"I did not contradict her," says Caudle, "but suffered her to slumber

in such assurance."

LECTURE XXXV--MRS. CAUDLE "HAS BEEN TOLD" THAT CAUDLE HAS "TAKEN TO

PLAY" AT BILLIARDS

"Ah, you're very late to-night, dear.

"IT'S NOT LATE?

"Well, then, it isn't, that's all. Of course, a woman can never tell

when it's late. You were late on Tuesday, too; a little late on the

Friday before; on the Wednesday before that--now, you needn't twist

about in that manner; I'm not going to say anything--no; for I see

it's now no use. Once, I own, it used to fret me when you stayed

out; but that's all over: you've now brought me to that state,

Caudle--and it's your own fault entirely--that I don't care whether

you ever come home or not. I never thought I could be brought to

think so little of you; but you've done it: you've been treading on

the worm for these twenty years, and it's turned at last.

"Now, I'm not going to quarrel; that's all over: I don't feel enough

for you to quarrel with,--I don't, Caudle, as true as I'm in this

bed. All I want of you is--any other man would speak to his wife,

and not lie there like a log--all I want is this. Just tell me where

you were on Tuesday? You were not at dear mother's, though you know

she's not well, and you know she thinks of leaving the dear children

her money; but you never had any feeling for anybody belonging to me.

And you were not at your Club: no, I know that. And you were not at

any theatre.

"HOW DO I KNOW?

"Ha, Mr. Caudle! I only wish I didn't know. No; you were not at any

of these places; but I know well enough where you were.

"THEN WHY DO I ASK IF I KNOW?

"That's it: just to prove what a hypocrite you are: just to show

you that you can't deceive me.

"So, Mr. Caudle--you've turned billiard-player, sir.

"ONLY ONCE?

"That's quite enough: you might as well play a thousand times; for

you're a lost man, Caudle. Only once, indeed! I wonder, if I was to

say 'Only once,' what would you say to me? But, of course, a man can

do no wrong in anything.

"And you're a lord of the creation, Mr. Caudle; and you can stay away

from the comforts of your blessed fireside, and the society of your

own wife and children--though, to be sure, you never thought anything

of them--to push ivory balls about with a long stick upon a green

table-cloth. What pleasure any man can take in such stuff must

astonish any sensible woman. I pity you, Caudle!

"And you can go and do nothing but make 'cannons'--for that's the

gibberish they talk at billiards--when there's the manly and athletic

game of cribbage, as my poor grandmother used to call it, at your own

hearth. You can go into a billiard-room--you, a respectable

tradesman, or as you set yourself up for one, for if the world knew

all, there's very little respectability in you--you can go and play

billiards with a set of creatures in mustachios, when you might take

a nice quiet hand with me at home. But no! anything but cribbage

with your own wife!

"Caudle, it's all over now; you've gone to destruction. I never knew

a man enter a billiard-room that he wasn't lost for ever. There was

my uncle Wardle; a better man never broke the bread of life: he took

to billiards, and he didn't live with aunt a month afterwards.

"A LUCKY FELLOW?

"And that's what you call a man who leaves his wife--a 'lucky

fellow'? But, to be sure, what can I expect? We shall not be

together long, now: it's been some time coming, but, at last, we

must separate: and the wife I've been to you!

"But I know who it is; it's that fiend Prettyman. I WILL call him a

fiend, and I'm by no means a foolish woman: you'd no more have

thought of billiards than a goose, if it hadn't been for him. Now,

it's no use, Caudle, your telling me that you have only been once,

and that you can't hit a ball anyhow--you'll soon get over all that;

and then you'll never be at home. You'll be a marked man, Caudle;

yes, marked: there'll be something about you that'll be dreadful;

for if I couldn't tell a billiard-player by his looks, I've no eyes,

that's all. They all of 'em look as yellow as parchment, and wear

mustachios--I suppose you'll let yours grow now; though they'll be a

good deal troubled to come. I know that. Yes, they've all a yellow

and sly look; just for all as if they were first cousins to people

that picked pockets. And that will be your case, Caudle: in six

months the dear children won't know their own father.

"Well, if I know myself at all, I could have borne anything but

billiards. The companions you'll find! The Captains that will be

always borrowing fifty pounds of you! I tell you, Caudle, a

billiard-room's a place where ruin of all sorts is made easy, I may

say, to the lowest understanding, so you can't miss it. It's a

chapel-of-ease for the devil to preach in--don't tell me not to be

eloquent: I don't know what you mean, Mr. Caudle, and I shall be

just as eloquent as I like. But I never can open my lips--and it

isn't often, goodness knows!--that I'm not insulted.

"No, I won't be quiet on this matter; I won't, Caudle: on any other,

I wouldn't say a word--and you know it--if you didn't like it; but on

this matter I WILL speak. I know you can't play at billiards; and

never could learn. I dare say not; but that makes it all the worse,

for look at the money you'll lose; see the ruin you'll be brought to.

It's no use your telling me you'll not play--now you can't help it.

And nicely you'll be eaten up. Don't talk to me; dear aunt told me

all about it. The lots of fellows that go every day into billiard-

rooms to get their dinners, just as a fox sneaks into a farm-yard to

look about him for a fat goose--and they'll eat you up, Caudle; I

know they will.

"Billiard-balls, indeed! Well, in my time I've been over Woolwich

Arsenal--you were something like a man then, for it was just before

we were married--and then I saw all sorts of balls; mountains of 'em,

to be shot away at churches, and into people's peaceable habitations,

breaking the china, and nobody knows what--I say, I've seen all these

balls--well, I know I've said that before; but I choose to say it

again--and there's not one of 'em, iron as they are, that could do

half the mischief of a billiard-ball. That's a ball, Caudle, that's

gone through many a wife's heart, to say nothing of her children.

And that's a ball, that night and day you'll be destroying your

family with. Don't tell me you'll not play! When once a man's given

to it--as my poor aunt used to say--the devil's always tempting him

with a ball, as he tempted Eve with an apple.

"I shall never think of being happy any more. No; that's quite out

of the question. You'll be there every night--I know you will,

better than you, so don't deny it--every night over that wicked green

cloth. Green, indeed! It's red, crimson red, Caudle, if you could

only properly see it--crimson red, with the hearts those balls have

broken. Don't tell me not to be pathetic--I shall: as pathetic as

it suits me. I suppose I may speak. However, I've done. It's all

settled now. You're a billiard-player, and I'm a wretched woman."

"I did not deny either position," writes Caudle, "and for this

reason--I wanted to sleep."

LECTURE THE LAST--MRS. CAUDLE HAS TAKEN COLD; THE TRAGEDY OF THIN

SHOES

"I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what you like--

but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't

wish to upbraid you neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not

getting wet in thin shoes,--oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind,

that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed you think gruel will cure

a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't

reach what I suffer; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself.

Well, I--I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way

about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she

can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes; when I think

I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say,--'twould

be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots; but I'm not

going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got

cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and 'tisn't likely I should begin

now.

"No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you: no,

goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world,--but

the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything

about it--but it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day

before yesterday.

"HOW CAN I RECOLLECT IT?

"Oh, very well: women remember things you never think of: poor

souls! they've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up

for you,--there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only

do let me speak: ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell

asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting

right in the draught of the keyhole. That was my death, Caudle,

though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think you

meant to do it.

"Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense; and to lay your

ill conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never

was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason

for it. No: I don't mean to say that you've killed me: quite the

reverse: still there's never been a day that I haven't felt that

key-hole. What?

"WHY WON'T I HAVE A DOCTOR?

"What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to expense?

Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle: yes,

after a very little time you won't miss me much--no man ever does.

"Peggy tells me, Miss Prettyman called to-day.

"WHAT OF IT?

"Nothing, of course. Yes; I know she heard I was ill, and that's why

she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I

shan't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy,

now.

"Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul

now? Well, I do believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I

hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can lie quiet in this

bed, and think of that young woman--not, indeed, that she's near so

young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her,

Caudle,--not the least. Still, I don't think I could lie at peace in

my grave if--well, I won't say anything more about her; but you know

what I mean.

"I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm

gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way if you desire it. Still,

I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to

be the shoes--certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you

know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's

ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter

to hurt you. I'd die first.

"Mother, you see, knows all your little ways; and you wouldn't get

another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done--a second wife

never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been

very happy. It hasn't been my fault if we've ever had a word or two,

for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help

their tempers always,--especially men. Still we've been very happy,

haven't we, Caudle?

"Good-night. Yes,--this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all

that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no,--it's NOT the

shoes. I won't say it's the key-hole; but again I say, it's not the

shoes. God bless you once more--But never say it's the shoes."

The above significant sketch is a correct copy of a drawing from the

hand of Caudle at the end of this Lecture. It can hardly, we think,

be imagined that Mrs. Caudle, during her fatal illness, never mixed

admonishment with soothing as before; but such fragmentary Lectures

were, doubtless, considered by her disconsolate widower as having too

touching, too solemn an import to be vulgarised by type. They were,

however, printed on the heart of Caudle; for he never ceased to speak

of the late partner of his bed as either "his sainted creature," or

"that angel now in heaven."