“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.