Part 2

“No, indeed, he couldn't be content with my pickled cabbage--and I should like to know who makes better--but he must have walnuts. And you, too, like a fool--now, don't you think to stop me, Mr. Caudle; a poor woman may be trampled to death, and never say a word--you, too, like a fool--I wonder who'd do it for you--to insist upon the girl going out for pickled walnuts. And in such a night too! With snow upon the ground. Yes; you're a man of fine feelings, you are, Mr. Caudle! but the world doesn't know you as I know you--fine feelings, indeed! to send the poor girl out, when I told you and told your friend too--a pretty brute he is, I'm sure--that the poor girl had got a cold and chilblains on her toes But I know what will be the end of that; she 'll be laid up, and we shall have a nice doctor's bill And you 'll pay it, I can tell you--for _I_ wont.

“Wish you were out of the world? Oh! yes, that's all very easy, I'm sure _I_ might wish it.

“Don't swear in that dreadful way! Ain't you afraid that the bed will open and swallow you? And don't swing about in that way. _That_ will do no good. _That_ won't bring back the leg of pork,--and the brandy you've poured down both of your throats. Oh, I know it! I'm sure of it. I only recollected it when I'd got into bed,--and if it hadn't been so cold, you'd have seen me down stairs again, I can tell you--I recollected it, and a pretty two hours I've passed, that I left the key in the cupboard,--and I knew it--I could see by the manner of you, when you came into the room--I know you've got the other bottle. However, there's one comfort: you told me to send for the best brandy--the very best--for your other friend, who called last Wednesday. Ha! ha! It was British--the cheapest British--and nice and ill I hope the pair of you will be tomorrow.

“There's only the bare bone of the leg of pork: but you'll get nothing else for dinner, I can tell you. It's a dreadful thing that the poor children should go without,--but, if they have such a father, they, poor things, must suffer for it.

“Nearly a whole leg of pork and a pint of brandy! A pint of brandy and a leg of pork. A leg of--leg--leg-pint--”

And mumbling the syllables, says Mr. Caudle's MS., she went to sleep

LECTURE VI. MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA. MRS. CAUDLE LECTURES THEREON.

“Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do! Why let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about _him_ that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides he'd have better taken cold than take our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't Saint Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh you _do_ hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! Don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. _He_ return the umbrella! Any body would think you were born yesterday. As if anybody ever _did_ return an umbrella! There--do you hear it? Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks--always six weeks. And no umbrella!

“I should like to know how the children are to get to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No: they shall stop at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they 'll have to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

“But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes; I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow,--you knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I 'll go all the more. No: and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours! A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence!--two-and-eightpence, for there's back again! Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em? _I_ can't pay for 'em; and I'm sure _you_ can't, if you go on as you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your children--buying umbrellas?

“Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say do you hear it? But I don't care--I 'll go to mother's to-morrow: I will; and what's more, I 'll walk every step of the way,--and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman--it's you that's the foolish man. You know can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, that's sure to give me a cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall--and a pretty doctor's bill there 'll be. I hope there will! It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course.

“Nice clothes, I shall get too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoilt quite. Needn't I wear 'em then? Indeed, Mr. Caudle, I _shall_ wear 'em. No, sir, I'm not going out a dowdy to please you or anybody else. Gracious knows! it isn't often that I step over the threshold; indeed, I might as well be a slave at once,--better, I should say. But when I do go out, Mr. Caudle, I choose to go as a lady. Oh! that rain--if it isn't enough to break in the windows.

“Ugh! I do look forward with dread for tomorrow. How I am to go to mother's I'm sure I can't tell. But if I die, I 'll do it. No, sir; I won't borrow an umbrella. No; and you shan't buy one. (_With great emphasis._) Mr. Caudle, if you bring home another umbrella, I 'll throw it in the street. I 'll have my own umbrella or none at all.

“Ha! and it was only last week I had a new nozzle put to that umbrella. I'm sure if I'd have known as much as I do now, it might have gone without one for me. Paying for new nozzles, for other people to laugh at you. Oh, it's all very well for you--you can go to sleep. You've no thought of your poor patient wife, and your own dear children. You think of nothing but lending umbrellas!

“Men, indeed!--Call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords when they can't take care of an umbrella!

“I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what you want--then you may go to your club, and do as you like--and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, then you 'll be happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent the umbrella!

“You have to go on Thursday about that summons; and, of course, you can't go. No, indeed, you _don't_ go without the umbrella. You may lose the debt for what I care--it won't be so much as spoiling your clothes--better lose it: people deserve to lose debts who lend umbrellas.

“And I should like to know how I'm to go to mother's without the umbrella? Oh, don't tell me that I said I _would_ go--that's nothing to do with it; nothing at all. She 'll think I'm neglecting her, and the little money we were to have, we shan't have at all--because we've no umbrella.

“The children, too! Dear things! They 'll be sopping wet: for they shan't stop at home----they shan't lose their learning; it's all their father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they _shall_ go to school. Don't tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd spoil the temper of an angel. They _shall_ go to school; mark that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--_I_ didn't lend the umbrella.”

“Here,” says Caudle in his MS, “I fell asleep; and dreamt that the sky was turned into green calico, with whalebone ribs; that, in fact, the whole world revolved under a tremendous umbrella!”

LECTURE VII. MR. CAUDLE HAS VENTURED A REMONSTRANCE ON HIS DAY'S DINNER: COLD MUTTON, AND NO PUDDING. MRS. CAUDLE DEFENDS THE COLD SHOULDER

I wonder what it will be next! There's nothing proper, now--nothing at all. Better get somebody else to keep the house I think. I can't do it now, it seems; I'm only in the way here: I'd better take the children, and go.

“What am I grumbling about now? It's very well for you to ask that! I'm sure I'd better be out of the world than--there now, Mr. Caudle; there you are again! I _shall_ speak, sir. It isn't often I open my mouth, heaven knows! But you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. You ought to have married a negro slave, and not any respectable woman.

“You 're to go about the house looking like thunder all the day, and I'm not to say a word. Where do you think pudding's to come from every-day? You show a nice example to your children, you do; complaining, and turning your nose up at a sweet piece of cold mutton, because there's no pudding! You go a nice way to make 'em extravagant--teach 'em nice lessons to begin the world with. Do you know what puddings cost; or do you think they fly in at the window?

“You hate cold mutton. The more shame for you, Mr. Caudle. I'm sure you've the stomach of a lord, you have. No, sir; I didn't choose to hash the mutton. It's very easy for you to say hash it; but _I_ know what a joint loses in hashing: it's a day's dinner the less, if it's a bit. Yes, I dare say; other people may have puddings with cold mutton. No doubt of it; and other people become bankrupts. But if ever you get into the Gazette, it shan't be _my_ fault--no; I'll do my duty as a wife to you, Mr. Caudle; you shall never have it to say that it was _my_ housekeeping that brought you to beggary. No; you may sulk at the cold meat--ha! I hope you 'll never live to want such a piece of cold mutton as we had to-day! And you may threaten to go to a tavern to dine; but with our present means, not a crumb of pudding do you get from me. You shall have nothing but the cold joint--nothing as I'm a Christian sinner.

“Yes; there you are, throwing those fowls in my face again! I know you once brought home a pair of fowls; I know it; and wern't you mean enough to want to stop 'em out of my week's money? Oh, the selfishness--the shabbiness of men! They can go out and throw away pounds upon pounds with a pack of people who laugh at 'em afterwards; but if it's anything wanted for their own homes, their poor wives may hunt for it. I wonder you don't blush to name those fowls again! I wouldn't be so little for the world, Mr. Caudle!

“What are you going to do? Going to get up? Don't make yourself ridiculous, Mr. Caudle; I can't say a word to you like any other wife, but you must threaten to get up. _Do_ be ashamed of yourself.

“Puddings, indeed! Do you think I'm made of puddings? Didn't you have some boiled rice three weeks ago? Besides, is this the time of the year for puddings? It's all very well if I had money enough allowed me like any other wife to keep the house with; then, indeed, I might have preserves, like any other woman; now, it's impossible; and it's cruel--yes, Mr. Caudle, cruel--of you to expect it.

“Apples arn't so dear, arn't they? I know what apples are, Mr. Caudle, without your telling me. But I suppose you want something more than apples for dumplings? I suppose sugar costs something, doesn't it? And that's how it is. That's how one expense brings on another, and that's how people go to ruin.

“Pancakes! What's the use of your lying muttering there about pancakes? Don't you always have 'em once a-year--every Shrove Tuesday? And what would any moderate, decent man want more?

“Pancakes, indeed! Pray, Mr. Caudle,--no, it's no use your saying fine words to me to let you go to sleep; I shan't!--pray do you know the price of eggs just now? There's not an egg you can trust to under seven and eight a shilling; well, you've only just to reckon up how many eggs--don't lie swearing there at the eggs, in that manner, Mr. Caudle; unless you expect the bed to open under you. You call yourself a respectable tradesman, I suppose! Ha! I only wish people knew you as well as I do! Swearing at eggs, indeed! But I'm tired of this usage, Mr. Caudle; quite tired of it; and I don't care how soon it's ended!

“I'm sure I do nothing but work and labour, and think how to make the most of everything; and this is how I'm rewarded. I should like to see anybody whose joints go further than mine. But if I was to throw away your money into the street, or lay it out in fine feathers on myself, I should be better thought of. The woman who studies her husband and her family is always made a drudge of. It's your fine fal-lal wives who've the best time of it.

“What's the use of your lying groaning there in that manner? That won't make me hold my tongue, I can tell you. You think to have it all your own way--but you won't, Mr. Caudle! You can insult my dinner; look like a demon, I may say, at a wholesome piece of cold mutton--ha! the thousands of far better creatures than you are who'd been thankful for that mutton!--and I'm never to speak! But you 're mistaken--I will! Your usage of me, Mr. Caudle, is infamous--unworthy of a man. I only wish people knew you for what you are; but they shall, some day.

“Puddings! And now I suppose I shall hear of nothing but puddings! Yes, and I know what it would end in. First, you'd have a pudding every day;--oh, I know your extravagance--then you'd go for fish--then I shouldn't wonder if you'd have soup; turtle, no doubt: then you'd go for a dessert; and--oh! I see it all as plain as the quilt before me--but no! not while I live! What your second wife may do, I don't know; perhaps she'll be a fine lady; but you shan't be ruined by me, Mr. Caudle; that I'm determined. Puddings, indeed! Pu-dding-s! Pudd--”

“Exhausted nature,” says Caudle, “could hold no longer. Here my wife went to sleep.”

LECTURE VIII. CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON.--MRS. CAUDLE INDIGNANT AND CURIOUS.

“Now, Mr. Caudle--Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know--Now, what I mean to say is this; there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but, at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; there's an end of the marriage-state, I think--an end of all confidence between man and wife--if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel; there's a good soul, tell me what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still--not that I care much about it--still, I _should_ like to know. There's a dear: Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well?

“Caudle, you're enough to vex a saint! Now, don't you think you're going to sleep; because you 're not. Do you suppose I'd ever suffered you to go and be made a mason, if I didn't suppose I was to know the secret, too? Not that it's anything to know, I dare say; and that s why I'm determined to know it.

“But I know what it is; oh yes, there can be no doubt. The secret is, to ill-use poor women; to tyrannize over 'em; to make 'em your slaves; especially your wives. It must be something of the sort, or you wouldn't be ashamed to have it known. What's right and proper never need be done in secret. It's an insult to a woman for a man to be a free-mason, and let his wife know nothing of it. But, poor soul! she's sure to know it somehow--for nice husbands they all make. Yes, yes; a part of the secret is to think better of all the world than their own wives and families. I'm sure men have quite enough to care for--that is, if they act properly--to care for them they have at home. They can't have much care to spare for the world besides.

“And I suppose they call you _Brother_ Caudle? A pretty brother, indeed! Going and dressing yourself up in an apron, like a turnpike man--for that's what you look like. And I should like to know what the apron's for? There must be something in it not very respectable, I'm sure. Well, I only wish I was Queen for a day or two. I'd put an end to free-masonry, and all such trumpery, I know.

“Now, come, Caudle, don't let's quarrel. Eh! You 're not in pain, dear? What's it all about? What are you lying laughing there at? But I'm a fool to trouble my head about you.

“And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say,--you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion--not that I care about the secret itself: no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about: it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason--when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha, you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of 'em to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason. When he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart--a secret place in his mind--that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage!

“Caudle, you shan't close your eyes for a week--no, you shan't--unless you tell me some, of it. Come, there's a good creature; there's a love. I'm sure, Caudle, I wouldn't refuse you anything--and you know it, or ought to know it by this time. I only wish I had a secret! To whom should I think of confiding it, but to my dear husband? I should be miserable to keep it to myself, and you know it. Now, Caudle!

“Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!--yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is--it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you 'll tell me--you 'll tell your own Margaret? You won't! You 're a wretch, Mr. Caudle.

“But I know why: oh, yes, I can tell. The fact is, you're ashamed to let me know what a fool they've been making of you. That's it. You, at your time of life--the father of a family. I should be ashamed of myself, Caudle.

“And I suppose you'll be going to what you call your Lodge every night, now. Lodge, indeed! Pretty place it must be, where they don't admit women. Nice goings on, I dare say. Then you call one another brethren. Brethren! I'm sure you'd relations enough; you didn't want any more.

“But I know what all this masonry's about. It's only an excuse to get away from your wives and families, that you may feast and drink together, that's all. That's the secret. And to abuse women,--as if they were inferior animals, and not to be trusted. That's the secret; and nothing else.

“Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel. Yes, I know you 're in pain. Still, Caudle, my love; Caudle! Dearest, I say! Caudle! Caud--”

“I recollect nothing more,” says Caudle, “for here, thank Providence! I fell asleep.”

LECTURE IX. MR. CAUDLE HAS BEEN TO GREENWICH FAIR.

EM!--So, Mr. Caudle: I hope you enjoyed yourself at Greenwich. How do I know you've been at Greenwich? I know it very well, sir: know all about it: know more than you think I know. I thought there was something in the wind. Yes; I was sure of it, when you went out of the house, to-day. I knew it by the looks of you, though I didn't say anything. Upon my word! And you call yourself a respectable man, and the father of a family! Going to a fair amongst all sorts of people,--at your time of life. Yes; and never think of taking your wife with you. Oh, no! you can go and enjoy yourself out, with, _I_ don't know who: go out, and make yourself very pleasant, I dare say. Don't tell me; I hear what a nice companion Mr. Caudle is: what a good-tempered person. Ha! I only wish people could see you at home, that's all. But so it is with men. They can keep all their good temper for out-of-doors--their wives never see any of it. Oh, dear! I'm sure I don't know who'd be a poor woman!

“Now, Caudle, I'm not in an ill temper: not at all. I know I used to be a fool when we were first married: I used to worry and fret myself to death, when you went out; but I've got over that. I wouldn't put myself out of the way now for the best man that ever trod. For what thanks does a poor woman get? None at all. No: it's those who don't care for their families, who are the best thought of. I only wish I could bring myself not to care for mine.

“And why couldn't you say, like a man, you were going to Greenwich Fair, when you went out? It's no use your saying that, Mr. Caudle: don't tell me that you didn't think of going; you 'd made your mind up to it, and you know it. Pretty games you've had, no doubt! I should like to have been behind you, that's all. A man at your time of life!

“And I, of course, I never want to go out. Oh, no! I may stay at home with the cat. You couldn't think of taking your wife and children, like any other decent man, to a fair. Oh, no; you never care to be seen with us. I'm sure, many people don't know you 're married: how can they? Your wife's never seen with you. Oh, no; anybody but those belonging to you!

“Greenwich Fair, indeed! Yes,--and of course you went up and down the hill, running and racing with nobody knows who. Don't tell me; I know what you are when you're out. You don't suppose, Mr. Caudle, I've forgotten that pink bonnet, do you? No: I won't hold my tongue, and I'm not a foolish woman. It's no matter, sir, if the pink bonnet was fifty years ago--it's all the same for that. No: and if I live for fifty years to come, I never will leave off talking of it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Caudle. Ha! few wives would have been what I've been to you. I only wish my time was to come over again, that's all; I wouldn't be the fool I have been.

“Going to a fair! and I suppose you had your fortune told by the gypsies? You needn't have wasted your money. I'm sure I can tell you your fortune if you go on as you do. Yes, the gaol will be your fortune, Mr. Caudle. And it would be no matter--none at all--if your wife and children didn't suffer with you.

“And then you must go riding upon donkeys--you didn't go riding upon donkeys? Yes; it's very well for you to say so; but I dare say you did. I tell you, Caudle, I know what you are when you 're out. I wouldn't trust any of you--you, especially, Caudle.

“Then you must go in the thick of the fair, and have the girls scratching your coat with rattles! You couldn't help it, if they did scratch your coat? Don't tell me; people don't scratch coats unless they 're encouraged to do it. And you must go in a swing, too. You didn't go in a swing? And I'm a foolish woman to think so, am I? Well, if you didn't, it was no fault of yours: you wished to go, I've no doubt.