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.”
POSTSCRIPT
Our duty of editorship is closed. We hope we have honestly fulfilled the task of selection from a large mass of papers. We could have presented to the female world a Lecture for Every Night in the year. Yes, - three hundred and sixty-five separate Lectures! We trust, however, that we have done enough. And if we have armed weak woman with even one argument in her unequal contest with that imperious creature, man - if we have awarded to a sex, as Mrs. Caudle herself was wont to declare, “put upon from the beginning,” the slightest means of defence - if we have supplied a solitary text to meet any one of the manifold wrongs with which woman, in her household life, is continually pressed by her tyrannic taskmaster, man, - we feel that we have only paid back one grain, hardly one, of that mountain of more than gold it is our felicity to owe her.
During the progress of these Lectures, it has very often pained us, and that excessively, to hear from unthinking, inexperienced men - bachelors of course - that every woman, no matter how divinely composed, has in her ichor-flowing veins one drop - “no bigger than a wren’s eye” - of Caudle; that Eve herself may now and then have been guilty of a lecture, murmuring it balmily amongst the rose-leaves. It may be so; still, be it our pride never to believe it. NEVER!
Footnotes:
{1} The author was just 42 when he began the “Caudle Lectures.”