“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.