Chapter 5

"A man gets arrested, and because he's taken from his wife and family, and locked up, you must go and trouble your head with it! And you must be mixing yourself up with nasty sheriff's officers-- pah! I'm sure you're not fit to enter a decent house--and go running from lawyer to lawyer to get bail, and settle the business, as you call it! A pretty settlement you'll make of it--mark my words! Yes- -and to mend the matter, to finish it quite, you must be one of the bail! That any man who isn't a born fool should do such a thing for another! Do you think anybody would do as much for you?

"YES?

"You say yes? Well, I only wish--just to show that I'm right--I only wish you were in a condition to try 'em. I should only like to see you arrested. You'd find the difference--that you would.

"What's other people's affairs to you? If you were locked up, depend upon it, there's not a soul would come near you. No; it's all very fine now, when people think there isn't a chance of your being in trouble--but I should only like to see what they'd say to you if YOU were in a sponging-house. Yes--I should enjoy THAT, just to show you that I'm always right. What do you say?

"YOU THINK BETTER OF THE WORLD?

"Ha! that would be all very well if you could afford it; but you're not in means, I know, to think so well of people as all that. And of course they only laugh at you. 'Caudle's an easy fool,' they cry--I know it as well as if I heard 'em--'Caudle's an easy fool; anybody may lead him.' Yes anybody but his own wife;--and she--of course--is nobody.

"And now, everybody that's arrested will of course send to you. Yes, Mr. Caudle, you'll have your hands full now, no doubt of it. You'll soon know every sponging-house and every sheriff's officer in London. Your business will have to take care of itself; you'll have enough to do to run from lawyer to lawyer after the business of other people. Now, it's no use calling me a dear soul--not a bit! No; and I shan't put it off till to-morrow. It isn't often I speak, but I WILL speak now.

"I wish that Prettyman had been at the bottom of the sea before-- what?

"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?

"Ah! it's very well for you to say so; but I know it is; it's just like him. He looks like a man that's always in debt--that's always in a sponging-house. Anybody might swear it. I knew it from the very first time you brought him here--from the very night he put his nasty dirty wet boots on my bright steel fender. Any woman could see what the fellow was in a minute. Prettyman! a pretty gentleman, truly, to be robbing your wife and family!

"Why couldn't you let him stop in the sponging--Now don't call upon heaven in that way, and ask me to be quiet, for I won't. Why couldn't you let him stop there? He got himself in; he might have got himself out again. And you must keep me awake, ruin my sleep, my health, and for what you care, my peace of mind. Ha! everybody but you can see how I'm breaking. You can do all this while you're talking with a set of low bailiffs! A great deal you must think of your children to go into a lawyer's office.

"And then you must be bail--you must be bound--for Mr. Prettyman! You may say, bound! Yes--you've your hands nicely tied, now. How he laughs at you--and serve you right! Why, in another week he'll be in the East Indies; of course he will! And you'll have to pay his debts; yes, your children may go in rags, so that Mr. Prettyman--what do you say?

"IT ISN'T PRETTYMAN?

"I know better. Well, if it isn't Prettyman that's kept you out,--if it isn't Prettyman you're bail for--who is it, then? I ask, who is it, then? What?

"MY BROTHER? BROTHER TOM?

"Oh, Caudle! dear Caudle--"

"It was too much for the poor soul," says Caudle; "she sobbed as if her heart would break, and I--" and here the MS. is blotted, as though Caudle himself had dropped tears as he wrote.

LECTURE XVI--BABY IS TO BE CHRISTENED; MRS. CAUDLE CANVASSES THE MERITS OF PROBABLE GODFATHERS

"Come, now, love, about baby's name? The dear thing's three months old, and not a name to its back yet. There you go again! Talk of it to-morrow! No; we'll talk of it to-night. There's no having a word with you in the daytime--but here you can't leave me. Now don't say you wish you could, Caudle; that's unkind, and not treating a wife-- especially the wife to you--as she deserves. It isn't often that I speak but I DO believe you'd like never to hear the sound of my voice. I might as well have been born dumb!

"I suppose the baby MUST have a godfather; and so, Caudle, who shall we have? Who do you think will be able to do the most for it? No, Caudle, no; I'm not a selfish woman--nothing of the sort--but I hope I've the feelings of a mother; and what's the use of a godfather if he gives nothing else to the child but a name? A child might almost as well not be christened at all. And so who shall we have? What do you say?

"ANYBODY?

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Caudle? Don't you think something will happen to you, to talk in that way? I don't know where you pick up such principles. I'm thinking who there is among our acquaintance who can do the most for the blessed creature, and you say,-- 'ANYBODY!' Caudle, you're quite a heathen.

"There's Wagstaff. No chance of his ever marrying, and he's very fond of babies. He's plenty of money, Caudle; and I think he might be got. Babies, I know it--babies are his weak side. Wouldn't it be a blessed thing to find our dear child in his will? Why don't you speak? I declare, Caudle, you seem to care no more for the child than if it was a stranger's. People who can't love children more than you do, ought never to have 'em.

"YOU DON'T LIKE WAGSTAFF?

"No more do I much; but what's that to do with it? People who've their families to provide for, mustn't think of their feelings. I don't like him; but then I'm a mother, and love my baby.

"YOU WON'T HAVE WAGSTAFF AND THAT'S FLAT?

"Ha, Caudle, you're like nobody else--not fit for this world, you're not.

"What do you think of Pugsby? I can't bear his wife; but that's nothing to do with it. I know my duty to my babe: I wish other people did. What do you say?

"PUGSBY'S A WICKED FELLOW?

"Ha! that's like you--always giving people a bad name. We mustn't always believe what the world says, Caudle; it doesn't become us as Christians to do it. I only know that he hasn't chick or child; and, besides that, he's very strong interest in the Blue-coats; and so, if Pugsby--Now, don't fly out at the man in that manner. Caudle, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! You can't speak well of anybody. Where DO you think to go to?

"What do you say, then, to Sniggins? Now, don't bounce round in that way, letting the cold air into the bed! What's the matter with Sniggins?

"YOU WOULDN'T ASK HIM A FAVOUR FOR THE WORLD?

"Well, it's a good thing the baby has somebody to care for it: _I_ will. What do you say?

"I SHAN'T?

"I will, I can tell you. Sniggins, besides being a warm man, has good interest in the Customs; and there's nice pickings there, if one only goes the right way to get 'em. It's no use, Caudle, your fidgetting about--not a bit. I'm not going to have baby lost-- sacrificed, I may say, like its brothers and sisters.

"WHAT DO I MEAN BY SACRIFICED?

"Oh, you know what I mean very well. What have any of 'em got by their godfathers beyond a half-pint mug, a knife and fork, and spoon- -and a shabby coat, that I know was bought second-hand, for I could almost swear to the place? And then there was your fine friend Hartley's wife--what did she give to Caroline? Why, a trumpery lace cap it made me blush to look at. What?

"IT WAS THE BEST SHE COULD AFFORD?

"Then she'd no right to stand for the child. People who can't do better than that have no business to take the responsibility of godmother. They ought to know their duties better.

"Well, Caudle, you can't object to Goldman?

"YES, YOU DO?

"Was there ever such a man! What for?

"HE'S A USURER AND A HUNKS?

"Well, I'm sure, you've no business in this world, Caudle; you have such high-flown notions. Why, isn't the man as rich as the bank? And as for his being a usurer,--isn't it all the better for those who come after him? I'm sure it's well there's some people in the world who save money, seeing the stupid creatures who throw it away. But you are the strangest man! I really believe you think money a sin, instead of the greatest blessing; for I can't mention any of our acquaintance that's rich--and I'm sure we don't know too many such people--that you haven't something to say against 'em. It's only beggars that you like--people with not a shilling to bless themselves. Ha! though you're my husband, I must say it--you're a man of low notions, Caudle. I only hope none of the dear boys will take after their father!

"And I should like to know what's the objection to Goldman? The only thing against him is his name; I must confess it, I don't like the name of Lazarus: it's low, and doesn't sound genteel--not at all respectable. But after he's gone and done what's proper for the child, the boy could easily slip Lazarus into Laurence. I'm told the thing's done often. No, Caudle, don't say that--I'm not a mean woman--certainly not; quite the reverse. I've only a parent's love for my children; and I must say it--I wish everybody felt as I did.

"I suppose, if the truth was known, you'd like your tobacco-pipe friend, your pot-companion, Prettyman, to stand for the child?

"YOU'D HAVE NO OBJECTION?

"I thought not! Yes; I knew what it was coming to. He's a beggar, he is; and a person who stays out half the night; yes, he does; and it's no use your denying it--a beggar and a tippler, and that's the man you'd make godfather to your own flesh and blood! Upon my word, Caudle, it's enough to make a woman get up and dress herself to hear you talk.

"Well, I can hardly tell you, if you won't have Wagstaff, or Pugsby, or Sniggins, or Goldman, or somebody that's respectable, to do what's proper, the child sha'n't be christened at all. As for Prettyman, or any such raff--no, never! I'm sure there's a certain set of people that poverty's catching from, and that Prettyman's one of 'em. Now, Caudle, I won't have my dear child lost by any of your spittoon acquaintance, I can tell you.

"No; unless I can have MY way, the child sha'n't be christened at all. What do you say?

"IT MUST HAVE A NAME?

"There's no 'must' at all in the case--none. No, it shall have no name; and then see what the world will say. I'll call it Number Six- -yes, that will do as well as anything else, unless I've the godfather I like. Number Six Caudle! ha! ha! I think that must make you ashamed of yourself if anything can. Number Six Caudle--a much better name than Mr. Prettyman could give; yes, Number Six. What do you say?

"ANYTHING BUT NUMBER SEVEN?

"Oh, Caudle, if ever--"

"At this moment," writes Caudle, "little Number Six began to cry; and taking advantage of the happy accident I somehow got to sleep."

LECTURE XVII--CAUDLE IN THE COURSE OF THE DAY HAS VENTURED TO QUESTION THE ECONOMY OF "WASHING AT HOME."

"Pooh! A pretty temper you come to bed in, Mr. Caudle, I can see! Oh, don't deny it--I think I ought to know by this time. But it's always the way; whenever I get up a few things, the house can hardly hold you! Nobody cries out more about clean linen than you do--and nobody leads a poor woman so miserable a life when she tries to make her husband comfortable. Yes, Mr. Caudle--comfortable! You needn't keep chewing the word, as if you couldn't swallow it.

"WAS THERE EVER SUCH A WOMAN?

"No, Caudle; I hope not: I should hope no other wife was ever put upon as I am! It's all very well for you. I can't have a little wash at home like anybody else but you must go about the house swearing to yourself, and looking at your wife as if she was your bitterest enemy. But I suppose you'd rather we didn't wash at all. Yes; then you'd be happy! To be sure you would--you'd like to have all the children in their dirt, like potatoes: anything, so that it didn't disturb you. I wish you'd had a wife who never washed--SHE'D have suited you, she would. Yes; a fine lady who'd have let your children go that you might have scraped 'em. She'd have been much better cared for than I am. I only wish I could let all of you go without clean linen at all--yes, all of you. I wish I could! And if I wasn't a slave to my family, unlike anybody else, I should.

"No, Mr. Caudle; the house isn't tossed about in water as if it was Noah's Ark. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself to talk of Noah's Ark in that loose manner. I'm sure I don't know what I've done to be married to a man of such principles. No: and the whole house DOESN'T taste of soap-suds either; and if it did, any other man but yourself would be above naming it. I suppose I don't like washing-day any more than yourself. What do you say?

"YES, I DO?

"Ha! you're wrong there, Mr. Caudle. No; I don't like it because it makes everybody else uncomfortable. No; and I ought not to have been born a mermaid, that I might always have been in water. A mermaid, indeed! What next will you call me? But no man, Mr. Caudle, says such things to his wife as you. However, as I've said before, it can't last long, that's one comfort. What do you say?

"YOU'RE GLAD OF IT?

"You're a brute, Mr. Caudle! No, you DIDN'T mean washing: I know what you mean. A pretty speech to a woman who's been the wife to you I have! You'll repent it when it's too late: yes, I wouldn't have your feelings when I'm gone, Caudle; no, not for the Bank of England.

"And when we only wash once a fortnight! Ha! I only wish you had some wives, they'd wash once a week! Besides, if once a fortnight's too much for you, why don't you give me money that we may have things to go a month? Is it MY fault if we're short? What do you say?

"MY 'ONCE A FORTNIGHT' LASTS THREE DAYS?

"No, it doesn't; never; well, very seldom, and that's the same thing. Can I help it, if the blacks will fly, and the things must be rinsed again? Don't say that; I'm NOT made happy by the blacks, and they DON'T prolong my enjoyment; and, more than that, you're an unfeeling man to say so. You're enough to make a woman wish herself in her grave--you are, Caudle.

"And a pretty example you set to your sons! Because we'd a little wash to-day, and there wasn't a hot dinner--and who thinks of getting anything hot for washer-women?--because you hadn't everything as you always have it, you must swear at the cold mutton--and you don't know what that mutton costs a pound, I dare say--you must swear at a sweet, wholesome joint like a lord. What?

"YOU DIDN'T SWEAR?

"Yes; it's very well for you to say so; but I know when you're swearing; and you swear when you little think it; and I say you must go on swearing as you did, and seize your hat like a savage, and rush out of the house, and go and take your dinner at a tavern! A pretty wife people must think you have, when they find you dining at a public-house. A nice home they must think you have, Mr. Caudle! What?

"YOU'LL DO SO EVERY TIME I WASH?

"Very well, Mr. Caudle--very well. We'll soon see who's tired of that, first; for I'll wash a stocking a day if that's all, sooner than you should have everything as you like. Ha! that's so like you: you'd trample everybody under foot, if you could--you know you would, Caudle, so don't deny it.

"Now, if you begin to shout in that manner, I'll leave the bed. It's very hard that I can't say a single word to you, but you must almost raise the place.

"YOU DIDN'T SHOUT?

"I don't know what you call shouting, then! I'm sure the people must hear you in the next house. No--it won't do to call me soft names, now, Caudle: I'm not the fool that I was when I was first married--I know better now. You're to treat me in the manner you have, all day; and then at night, the only time and place when I can get a word in, you want to go to sleep. How can you be so mean, Caudle?

"What?

"WHY CAN'T I PUT THE WASHING OUT?

"Now, you have asked that a thousand times, but it's no use, Caudle; so don't ask it again. I won't put it out. What do you say?

"MRS. PRETTYMAN SAYS IT'S QUITE AS CHEAP?

"Pray, what's Mrs. Prettyman to me? I should think, Mr. Caudle, that I know very well how to take care of my family without Mrs. Prettyman's advice. Mrs. Prettyman, indeed! I only wish she'd come here, that I might tell her so! Mrs. Prettyman! But, perhaps she'd better come and take care of your house for you! Oh, yes! I've no doubt she'd do it much better than I do--MUCH. No, Caudle! I WON'T HOLD MY TONGUE. I think I ought to be mistress of my own washing by this time--and after the wife I've been to you, it's cruel of you to go on as you do.

"Don't tell me about putting the washing out. I say it isn't so cheap--I don't care whether you wash by the dozen or not--it isn't so cheap; I've reduced everything, and I save at least a shilling a week. What do you say?

"A TRUMPERY SHILLING?

"Ha! I only hope to goodness you'll not come to want, talking of shillings in the way you do. Now, don't begin about your comfort: don't go on aggravating me, and asking me if your comfort's not worth a shilling a week? That's nothing at all to do with it--nothing: but that's your way--when I talk of one thing, you talk of another; that's so like you men, and you know it. Allow me to tell you, Mr. Caudle, that a shilling a week is two pound twelve a year; and take two pound twelve a year for, let us say, thirty years, and--well, you needn't groan, Mr. Caudle--I don't suppose it will be so long; oh, no! you'll have somebody else to look after your washing long before that--and if it wasn't for my dear children's sake I shouldn't care how soon. You know my mind--and so, good-night, Mr. Caudle."

"Thankful for her silence," writes Caudle, "I was fast dropping to sleep; when, jogging my elbow, my wife observed--'Mind, there's the cold mutton to-morrow--nothing hot till that's gone. Remember, too, as it was a short wash to-day, we wash again on Wednesday.'"

LECTURE XVIII--CAUDLE, WHILST WALKING WITH HIS WIFE, HAS BEEN BOWED TO BY A YOUNGER AND EVEN PRETTIER WOMAN THAN MRS. CAUDLE

"If I'm not to leave the house without being insulted, Mr. Caudle, I had better stay indoors all my life.

"What! Don't tell me to let you have ONE night's rest! I wonder at your impudence! It's mighty fine, I never can go out with you and-- goodness knows!--it's seldom enough without having my feelings torn to pieces by people of all sorts. A set of bold minxes!

"WHAT AM I RAVING ABOUT?

"Oh, you know very well--very well, indeed, Mr. Caudle. A pretty person she must be to nod to a man walking with his own wife! Don't tell me that it's Miss Prettyman--what's Miss Prettyman to me? Oh!

"YOU'VE MET HER ONCE OR TWICE AT HER BROTHER'S HOUSE?

"Yes, I dare say you have--no doubt of it. I always thought there was something very tempting about that house--and now I know it all. Now, it's no use, Mr. Caudle, your beginning to talk loud, and twist and toss your arms about as if you were as innocent as a born babe-- I'm not to be deceived by such tricks now. No; there was a time when I was a fool and believed anything; but--I thank my stars!--I've got over that.

"A bold minx! You suppose I didn't see her laugh, too, when she nodded to you! Oh yes, I knew what she thought me--a poor miserable creature, of course. I could see that. No--don't say so, Caudle. I DON'T always see more than anybody else--but I can't and won't be blind, however agreeable it might be to you; I must have the use of my senses. I'm sure, if a woman wants attention and respect from a man, she'd better be anything than his wife. I've always thought so; and to-day's decided it.

"No; I'm not ashamed of myself to talk so--certainly not.

"A GOOD, AMIABLE YOUNG CREATURE INDEED!

"Yes; I dare say; very amiable, no doubt. Of course, you think her so. You suppose I didn't see what sort of a bonnet she had on? Oh, a very good creature! And you think I didn't see the smudges of court plaster about her face?

"YOU DIDN'T SEE 'EM?

"Very likely; but I did. Very amiable, to be sure! What do you say?

"I MADE HER BLUSH AT MY ILL MANNERS?

"I should have liked to have seen her blush! 'Twould have been rather difficult, Mr. Caudle, for a blush to come through all that paint. No--I'm not a censorious woman, Mr. Caudle; quite the reverse. No; and you may threaten to get up, if you like--I will speak. I know what colour is, and I say it WAS paint. I believe, Mr. Caudle, _I_ once had a complexion--though of course you've quite forgotten that: I think I once had a colour--before your conduct destroyed it. Before I knew you, people used to call me the Lily and Rose; but--what are you laughing at? I see nothing to laugh at. But as I say, anybody before your own wife.

"And I can't walk out with you but you're bowed to by every woman you meet!

"WHAT DO I MEAN BY EVERY WOMAN, WHEN IT'S ONLY MISS PRETTYMAN?

"That's nothing at all to do with it. How do I know who bows to you when I'm not by? Everybody of course. And if they don't look at you, why you look at them. Oh! I'm sure you do. You do it even when I'm out with you, and of course you do it when I'm away. Now, don't tell me, Caudle--don't deny it. The fact is, it's become such a dreadful habit with you, that you don't know when you do it, and when you don't. But I do.

"Miss Prettyman, indeed! What do you say?

"YOU WON'T LIE STILL AND HEAR ME SCANDALISE THAT EXCELLENT YOUNG WOMAN?

"Oh, of course you'll take her part! Though, to be sure, she may not be so much to blame after all. For how is she to know you're married? You're never seen out of doors with your own wife--never. Wherever you go, you go alone. Of course people think you're a bachelor. What do you say?

"YOU WELL KNOW YOU'RE NOT?

"That's nothing to do with it--I only ask, What must people think, when I'm never seen with you? Other women go out with their husbands: but, as I've often said, I'm not like any other woman. What are you sneering at, Mr. Caudle?

"HOW DO I KNOW YOU'RE SNEERING?

"Don't tell me: I know well enough, by the movement of the pillow.

"No; you never take me out--and you know it. No; and it's not my own fault. How can you lie there and say that? Oh, all a poor excuse! That's what you always say. You're tired of asking me, indeed, because I always start some objection? Of course I can't go out a figure. And when you ask me to go, you know very well that my bonnet isn't as it should be--or that my gown hasn't come home--or that I can't leave the children--or that something keeps me indoors. You know all this well enough before you ask me. And that's your art. And when I DO go out with you, I'm sure to suffer for it. Yes, you needn't repeat my words. SUFFER FOR IT. But you suppose I have no feelings: oh no, nobody has feelings but yourself. Yes; I'd forgot: Miss Prettyman, perhaps--yes, she may have feelings, of course.

"And as I've said, I dare say a pretty dupe people think me. To be sure; a poor forlorn creature I must look in everybody's eyes. But I knew you couldn't be at Mr. Prettyman's house night after night till eleven o'clock--and a great deal you thought of me sitting up for you--I knew you couldn't be there without some cause. And now I've found it out! Oh, I don't mind your swearing, Mr. Caudle! It's I, if I wasn't a woman, who ought to swear. But it's like you men. Lords of the creation, as you call yourselves! Lords, indeed! And pretty slaves you make of the poor creatures who're tied to you. But I'll be separated, Caudle; I will; and then I'll take care and let all the world know how you've used me. What do you say?

"I MAY SAY MY WORST?