The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1867-03-21
THE TW'ENTY-FIFTH LECTURE.

ar ~ you tired, Caudle
"NoY Well was there ever such a man
But nothing ever tires you. OF course it's all
very well for you; yes you can read your
newspaper and-what? So can ~ And /
wonder what would become of the children if
did, No; it's enough for the father to lose
his precious time, talking about politics, and
lords, and pack of people who wouldn't care
pin if we hadn't a roof TO cover us-it's well
enough for-no, Caudle no; Pm not going to
worry you | never worried you yet, and it
isn't likely | should begin now. But that's
always the way with you-always. I'm sure
we should be the happiest couple alive
only you do so like to have all the talk
to yourself. We're out upon pleasure, and
therefore let's be comfortable Still, must
say it, when you like, you're an aggravating
man, Caudle, and you know it.
"Uhat hare you done noW? There, now; we
won't talk of it. No let's go to sleep: other
wise we shall quarrel know we shall.
What have you done, indeed That l can't
leave my home for a few days, but | must be
insuted Everybody upon the pier saw it.
,SGC Uhdt? How can you lie there in bed and
ask me Saw what indeed Of course, it
was a planned thing regularly settled before
you left London. Oh, yes | like your innO
cence, Mr.. Caudle not knowing what Pm
talking about. It's breaking thing for
a woman to say of her own husband; but
you've been a wicked man to me. Yes, and
all your tossing and tumbling about in the
bed won't make it any better
'Oh, it's easy enough to call a woman
dear SOUL must be very dear, indeed, to
you, when you bring down Miss Prettyman
to-theTe, now; you needn't shout like wild
savage. Do you know that you re not in your
own house-do you know that we're in lodg-
ings2 What do you suppose the people will
think of us! You needn't call out in that
manner, for they can hear every word that's
said. What do you say? Wig don't hold
excuse with you. Anything to stop my
mouth. Miss Prettyman's to follow you, and
Pm to say nothing. l know she has followed
you and if you were to go before a magis-
trate and take a shilling oath to the contrary,
l wouldn't believe you. No, Caudle, l
wouldn't.
''Very ,cell then? Hal What heart you
must have, to say very WE'LL and after the
wife I've been to you. Pm to be brought
from my own home-dragged down here to
the sea-side-to be laughed at before the
wOrld-dOn't tell me Do you think didn't
see how they looked at yOu-how she puck
cred up her farthing mouth-and-what
WIZ did k7SS her, then? What's that to do
with ii? Appearances are one thing, Mr..
Caudle, and feelings are another. AS if
women can't kiss one another without mean
ing anything by it And you-I could see
you-looked as cold and as formal at her as
we'll, Caudle l wouldn't be the hypocrite
you are for the world
"There now I've heard all that story. 1
dare say she did come down to join her
brother How very lucky, though, that you
should be here Ha ha how very lucky
that-ughl ugh ugh and with the cough
I've got upon me-oh, you've heart like
seaside flint Yes, that's all right. That's
lilo h11Y Ynor,itNy aan't catch cold
but it must be by my own fault-it must be
my thin shoes. dare say you'd like to see
me in ploughman's boots t would be no mat
ter to you how | disfgured myself Miss
Prettyman's foot, now, would be another
thing-nO doubt.
81 thought when you would make me leave
home-I thought we were coming here on
pleasure; but it's always the way you en-
bitter my life. The sooner that Pm out of
the world the better. What do you say
Nothing? But know what you mean, better
than if you had talked an hour. | only hope
you'll get a better wife, that's all, Mr. Caudle.
What You'd not ry? | know you, know
you In six months you'd fill upmy place; yes,
and dreadfully my poor children would suffer
for it.
"Caudle, if you roar in that way, the peO-
pie will give us warning tomorrow. can't /
be q,iet, then? Yes-that's like your artfulness :
anything to make me hold my tongue. But
we won't quarrel. Pm sure if it depended
upon me, we might be as happy as doves. l
mean it-and you needn't groan when | say it.
Goodnight, Caudle. What do you say
Bless me! Well, you are dear soul, Caudle ;
and if it wasn't for that Miss Prettyman-no,
Pm not tOrturing you. | know very well
what Pm doing, and l wouldn't torture you
for the world but you don't know what the
feelings of a wife are, Caudle you don't.
"Caudle-I say, Caudle. Just word, dear.
Well? Now, why should you snap me up in
that wayi You loant 10 90 TO sleep? So do l /;
but that's no reason you should speak to me
in that manner. You know, dear, you once
| promised to take me to France. You don't
recoiiect 1t? Yes-that's like you you don't
recollect many things you've promised me /;
but do. There's boat goes on Wednesday
| to BOulOgne and comes back the day after
wards. What of 1t? Why for that time we
! could leave the children with the girls, and go
| nicely. Nonsense? OF course if want any
| thing it's always nonsense. Other men can
take their wives half owe the world but you
think it quite enough to bring me down here
to this hole of a place, where | 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. Pm not CEN
serious, and ! wouldn't backbite an angel :
but the way in which that young woman
walks the sands at all hours-there there
IVe done: | can't open my lips about that
creature but you always storm.
"You know that always wanted to 90 to
France; and you bring me down here only on
purpose that should see the French cliffs
Just to tantalise me, and for nothing else. II
I'd remain at homeland it was against nv
will ever came here-I should never have