While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset1 by thecrowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings2 had somuch astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon afterour arrival, was in all such excitements. He seemed to projectthose two shining knobs of temples of his into everything that wenton and to brush his hair farther and farther back, until the veryroots were almost ready to fly out of his head in inappeasablephilanthropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was alwaysparticularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial to anyone. His great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminateadmiration. He would sit for any length of time, with the utmostenjoyment, bathing his temples in the light of any order ofluminary. Having first seen him perfectly3 swallowed up inadmiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be the absorbingobject of his devotion. I soon discovered my mistake and found himto be train-bearer and organ-blower to a whole procession ofpeople.
Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription4 to something, andwith her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Qualerepeated to us; and just as he had drawn5 Mrs. Jellyby out, he drewMrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introductionto my guardian6 in behalf of her eloquent7 friend Mr. Gusher8. WithMr. Gusher appeared Mr. Quale again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabbygentleman with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for hismoon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made forsomebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he wasscarcely seated before Mr. Quale asked Ada and me, not inaudibly,whether he was not a great creature--which he certainly was,flabbily speaking, though Mr. Quale meant in intellectual beauty--and whether we were not struck by his massive configuration9 ofbrow. In short, we heard of a great many missions of various sortsamong this set of people, but nothing respecting them was half soclear to us as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be in ecstasieswith everybody else's mission and that it was the most popularmission of all.
Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the tenderness of hisheart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power; butthat he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, wherebenevolence took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as aregular uniform by loud professors and speculators in cheapnotoriety, vehement10 in profession, restless and vain in action,servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory11 ofone another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly tohelp the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of blusterand self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they weredown, he plainly told us. When a testimonial was originated to Mr.
Quale by Mr. Gusher (who had already got one, originated by Mr.
Quale), and when Mr. Gusher spoke12 for an hour and a half on thesubject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boysand girls, who were specially13 reminded of the widow's mite14, andrequested to come forward with halfpence and be acceptablesacrifices, I think the wind was in the east for three whole weeks.
I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole again. Itseemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness andcarelessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast withsuch things, and were the more readily believed in since to findone perfectly undesigning and candid15 man among many opposites couldnot fail to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr.
Skimpole divined this and was politic16; I really never understoodhim well enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he certainlywas to the rest of the world.
He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in London, wehad seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in hisusual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.
Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious17, but rich men wereoften bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that hewas a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view--inhis expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medicalattendant in the most lavish18 manner. He had always doubled, andsometimes quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, "Now,my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion19 on your part to suppose thatyou attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with money--in myexpansive intentions--if you only knew it!" And really (he said)he meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same asdoing it. If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to whichmankind attached so much importance to put in the doctor's hand, hewould have put them in the doctor's hand. Not having them, hesubstituted the will for the deed. Very well! If he really meantit--if his will were genuine and real, which it was--it appeared tohim that it was the same as coin, and cancelled the obligation.
"It may be, partly, because I know nothing of the value of money,"said Mr. Skimpole, "but I often feel this. It seems so reasonable!
My butcher says to me he wants that little bill. It's a part ofthe pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he alwayscalls it a 'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to bothof us. I reply to the butcher, 'My good friend, if you knew it,you are paid. You haven't had the trouble of coming to ask for thelittle bill. You are paid. I mean it.'""But, suppose," said my guardian, laughing, "he had meant the meatin the bill, instead of providing it?""My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you surprise me. You take thebutcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with occupied that veryground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at eighteenpence a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen-pence apound, my honest friend?' said I, naturally amazed by the question.
'I like spring lamb!' This was so far convincing. 'Well, sir,'
says he, 'I wish I had meant the lamb as you mean the money!' 'Mygood fellow,' said I, 'pray let us reason like intellectual beings.
How could that be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb, and Ihave NOT got the money. You couldn't really mean the lamb withoutsending it in, whereas I can, and do, really mean the money withoutpaying it!' He had not a word. There was an end of the subject.""Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired my guardian.
"Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr. Skimpole. "But in thathe was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion reminds me ofBoythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him ashort visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire.""He is a great favourite with my girls," said Mr. Jarndyce, "and Ihave promised for them.""Nature forgot to shade him off, I think," observed Mr. Skimpole toAda and me. "A little too boisterous--like the sea. A little toovehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider everycolour scarlet20. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit inhim!"I should have been surprised if those two could have thought veryhighly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance tomany things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything.
Besides which, I had noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on thepoint of breaking out into some strong opinion when Mr. Skimpolewas referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada in saying that wehad been greatly pleased with him.
"He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole; "and if a child may trusthimself in such hands--which the present child is encouraged to do,with the united tenderness of two angels to guard him--I shall go.
He proposes to frank me down and back again. I suppose it willcost money? Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of thatsort? By the by, Coavinses. You remember our friend Coavinses,Miss Summerson?"He asked me as the subject arose in his mind, in his graceful,light-hearted manner and without the least embarrassment22.
"Oh, yes!" said I.
"Coavinses has been arrested by the Great Bailiff," said Mr.
Skimpole. "He will never do violence to the sunshine any more."It quite shocked me to hear it, for I had already recalled withanything but a serious association the image of the man sitting onthe sofa that night wiping his head.
"His successor informed me of it yesterday," said Mr. Skimpole.
"His successor is in my house now--in possession, I think he callsit. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I putit to him, 'This is unreasonable23 and inconvenient24. If you had ablue-eyed daughter you wouldn't like ME to come, uninvited, on HERbirthday?' But he stayed."Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity25 and lightly touchedthe piano by which he was seated.
"And he told me," he said, playing little chords where I shall putfull stops, "The Coavinses had left. Three children. No mother.
And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The risingCoavinses. Were at a considerable disadvantage."Mr. Jarndyce got up, rubbing his head, and began to walk about.
Mr. Skimpole played the melody of one of Ada's favourite songs.
Ada and I both looked at Mr. Jarndyce, thinking that we knew whatwas passing in his mind.
After walking and stopping, and several times leaving off rubbinghis head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon thekeys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this,Skimpole," he said thoughtfully.
Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject, looked upsurprised.
"The man was necessary," pursued my guardian, walking backward andforward in the very short space between the piano and the end ofthe room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if ahigh east wind had blown it into that form. "If we make such mennecessary by our faults and follies27, or by our want of worldlyknowledge, or by our misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselvesupon them. There was no harm in his trade. He maintained hischildren. One would like to know more about this.""Oh! Coavinses?" cried Mr. Skimpole, at length perceiving what hemeant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses' headquarters, andyou can know what you will."Mr. Jarndyce nodded to us, who were only waiting for the signal.
"Come! We will walk that way, my dears. Why not that way as soonas another!" We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpolewent with us and quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new andso refreshing28, he said, for him to want Coavinses instead ofCoavinses wanting him!
He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, where therewas a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' Castle.
On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous29 boycame out of a sort of office and looked at us over a spiked30 wicket.
"Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two of the spikes31 intohis chin.
"There was a follower32, or an officer, or something, here," said Mr.
Jarndyce, "who is dead.""Yes?" said the boy. "Well?""I want to know his name, if you please?""Name of Neckett," said the boy.
"And his address?""Bell Yard," said the boy. "Chandler's shop, left hand side, nameof Blinder.""Was he--I don't know how to shape the question--" murmured myguardian, "industrious33?""Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery much so. He was nevertired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner eightor ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it.""He might have done worse," I heard my guardian soliloquize. "Hemight have undertaken to do it and not done it. Thank you. That'sall I want."We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on thegate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln'sInn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearerCoavinses, awaited us. Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrowalley at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler's shop.
In it was a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or anasthma, or perhaps both.
"Neckett's children?" said she in reply to my inquiry34. "Yes,Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite thestairs." And she handed me the key across the counter.
I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it forgranted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only beintended for the children's door, I came out without askmg any morequestions and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietlyas we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged21 boards, andwhen we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a manwho was standing35 there looking out of his room.
"Is it Gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing his eyes on me withan angry stare.
"No, sir," said I; "I am going higher up."He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole, fixingthe same angry stare on each in succession as they passed andfollowed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good day!" he saidabruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a carewornhead on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, andprominent eyes. He had a combative37 look and a chafing38, irritablemanner which, associated with his figure--still large and powerful,though evidently in its decline--rather alarmed me. He had a penin his hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, Isaw that it was covered with a litter of papers.
Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tappedat the door, and a little shrill39 voice inside said, "We are lockedin. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"I applied40 the key on hearing this and opened the door. In a poorroom with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniturewas a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing andhushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire,though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in somepoor shawls and tippets as a substitute. Their clothing was not sowarm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched andtheir small figures shrunken as the boy walked up and down nursingand hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.
"Who has locked you up here alone?" we naturally asked.
"Charley," said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.
"Is Charley your brother?""No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley.""Are there any more of you besides Charley?""Me," said the boy, "and Emma," patting the limp bonnet41 of thechild he was nursing. "And Charley.""Where is Charley now?""Out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to walk up and down againand taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead by tryingto gaze at us at the same time.
We were looking at one another and at these two children when therecame into the room a very little girl, childish in figure butshrewd and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing awomanly sort of bonnet much too large for her and drying her barearms on a womanly sort of apron42. Her fingers were white andwrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were yet smoking which shewiped off her arms. But for this, she might have been a childplaying at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quickobservation of the truth.
She had come running from some place in the neighbourhood and hadmade all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was verylight, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as shestood panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.
"Oh, here's Charley!" said the boy.
The child he was nursing stretched forth43 its arms and cried out tobe taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort ofmanner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking atus over the burden that clung to her most affectionately.
"Is it possible," whispered my guardian as we put a chair for thelittle creature and got her to sit down with her load, the boykeeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child worksfor the rest? Look at this! For God's sake, look at this!"It was a thing to look at. The three children close together, andtwo of them relying solely44 on the third, and the third so young andyet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on thechildish figure.
"Charley, Charley!" said my guardian. "How old are you?""Over thirteen, sir," replied the child.
"Oh! What a great age," said my guardian. "What a great age,Charley!"I cannot describe the tenderness with which he spoke to her, halfplayfully yet all the more compassionately45 and mournfully.
"And do you live alone here with these babies, Charley?" said myguardian.
"Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up into his face withperfect confidence, "since father died.""And how do you live, Charley? Oh! Charley," said my guardian,turning his face away for a moment, "how do you live?""Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm out washingto-day.""God help you, Charley!" said my guardian. "You're not tall enoughto reach the tub!""In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly. "I've got a high pair asbelonged to mother.""And when did mother die? Poor mother!""Mother died just after Emma was born," said the child, glancing atthe face upon her bosom47. "Then father said I was to be as good amother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at homeand did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before Ibegan to go out. And that's how I know how; don't you see, sir?""And do you often go out?""As often as I can," said Charley, opening her eyes and smiling,"because of earning sixpences and shillings!""And do you always lock the babies up when you go out?"'To keep 'em safe, sir, don't you see?" said Charley. "Mrs.
Blinder comes up now and then, and Mr. Gridley comes up sometimes,and perhaps I can run in sometimes, and they can play you know, andTom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"'"No-o!" said Tom stoutly48.
"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down in the court,and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don'tthey, Tom?""Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite bright.""Then he's as good as gold," said the little creature--Oh, in sucha motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he puts her tobed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I comehome and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up againand has it with me. Don't you, Tom?""Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I do!" And either in thisglimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in gratitude49 and lovefor Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face among thescanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.
It was the first time since our entry that a tear had been shedamong these children. The little orphan50 girl had spoken of theirfather and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued51 by thenecessity of taking courage, and by her childish importance inbeing able to work, and by her bustling52 busy way. But now, whenTom cried, although she sat quite tranquil53, looking quietly at us,and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of either ofher little charges, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.
I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at thehousetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poorplants, and the birds in little cages belonging to the neighbours,when I found that Mrs. Blinder, from the shop below, had come in(perhaps it had taken her all this time to get upstairs) and wastalking to my guardian.
"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir," she said; "who couldtake it from them!"'"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two. "It is enough that thetime will come when this good woman will find that it WAS much, andthat forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--This child,"he added after a few moments, "could she possibly continue this?""Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs. Blinder, getting herheavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as it's possibleto be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children afterthe mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder tosee her with him after he was took ill, it really was! 'Mrs.
Blinder,' he said to me the very last he spoke--he was lying there--'Mrs. Blinder, whatever my calling may have been, I see a angelsitting in this room last night along with my child, and I trusther to Our Father!'""He had no other calling?" said my guardian.
"No, sir," returned Mrs. Blinder, "he was nothing but a follerers.
When he first came to lodge54 here, I didn't know what he was, and Iconfess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't likedin the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers55. It is NOT agenteel calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object toit. Mr. Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a goodlodger, though his temper has been hard tried.""So you gave him notice?" said my guardian.
"So I gave him notice," said Mrs. Blinder. "But really when thetime came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in doubts. He waspunctual and diligent56; he did what he had to do, sir," said Mrs.
Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it'ssomething in this world even to do that.""So you kept him after all?""Why, I said that if he could arrange with Mr. Gridley, I couldarrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind itsbeing liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consentgruff--but gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has beenkind to the children since. A person is never known till a personis proved.""Have many people been kind to the children?" asked Mr. Jarndyce.
"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs. Blinder; "butcertainly not so many as would have been if their father's callinghad been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerersmade up a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that hadalways joked and tapped their shoulders when he went by cameforward with a little subscription, and--in general--not so bad.
Similarly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her because shewas a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it ather; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with thatand all her draw-backs upon her, and perhaps pay her less and putupon her more. But she's patienter than others would be, and isclever too, and always willing, up to the full mark of her strengthand over. So I should say, in general, not so bad, sir, but mightbe better."Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable57 opportunityof recovering her breath, exhausted58 anew by so much talking beforeit was fully26 restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to uswhen his attention was attracted by the abrupt36 entrance into theroom of the Mr. Gridley who had been mentioned and whom we had seenon our way up.
"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies and gentlemen," hesaid, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll excuse my comingin. I don't come in to stare about me. Well, Charley! Well, Tom!
Well, little one! How is it with us all to-day?"He bent59 over the group in a caressing60 way and clearly was regardedas a friend by the children, though his face retained its sterncharacter and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. Myguardian noticed it and respected it.
"No one, surely, would come here to stare about him," he saidmildly.
"May be so, sir, may be so," returned the other, taking Tom uponhis knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't want to arguewith ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to lastone man his life.""You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said Mr. Jarndyce, "forbeing chafed61 and irritated--""There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming violently angry. "I amof a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not polite!""Not very, I think.""Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child and going up to him asif he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of Courts ofEquity?""Perhaps I do, to my sorrow.""To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his wrath62. "if so, Ibeg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your pardon!
Sir," with renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five andtwenty years over burning iron, and I have lost the habit oftreading upon velvet63. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and askwhat is one of the standing jokes that brighten up their businesssometimes, and they will tell you that the best joke they have isthe man from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one hand on theother passionately46, "am the man from Shropshire.""I believe I and my family have also had the honour of furnishingsome entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardiancomposedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce.""Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley with a rough sort of salutation, "youbear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine. More thanthat, I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these youngladies, if they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs inany other way, I should be driven mad! It is only by resentingthem, and by revenging them in my mind, and by angrily demandingthe justice I never get, that I am able to keep my wits together.
It is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely64, rustic65 way andwith great vehemence66. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself.
I answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I mustdo it. There's nothing between doing it, and sinking into thesmiling state of the poor little mad woman that haunts the court.
If I was once to sit down under it, I should become imbecile."The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in which hisface worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompaniedwhat he said, were most painful to see.
"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my case. As true as there is aheaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two brothers. Myfather (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and soforth to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all wasto come to me except a legacy67 of three hundred pounds that I wasthen to pay my brother. My mother died. My brother some timeafterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of my relations saidthat he had had a part of it already in board and lodging68 and someother things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else.
No one disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether partof that three hundred pounds had been already paid or not. Tosettle that question, my brother filing a bill, I was obliged to gointo this accursed Chancery; I was forced there because the lawforced me and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen people weremade defendants70 to that simple suit! It first came on after twoyears. It was then stopped for another two years while the master(may his head rot off!) inquired whether I was my father's son,about which there was no dispute at all with any mortal creature.
He then found out that there were not defendants enough--remember,there were only seventeen as yet!--but that we must have anotherwho had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs atthat time--before the thing was begun!--were three times thelegacy. My brother would have given up the legacy, and joyful71, toescape more costs. My whole estate, left to me in that will of myfather's, has gone in costs. The suit, still undecided, has falleninto rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything else--and here Istand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there arethousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds.
Is mine less hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my wholeliving was in it and has been thus shamefully72 sucked away?"Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled73 with him with all his heart andthat he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated bythis monstrous74 system.
"There again!" said Mr. Gridley with no diminution75 of his rage.
"The system! I am told on all hands, it's the system. I mustn'tlook to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court andsay, 'My Lord, I beg to know this from you--is this right or wrong?
Have you the face to tell me I have received justice and therefoream dismissed?' My Lord knows nothing of it. He sits there toadminister the system. I mustn't go to Mr. Tulkinghorn, thesolicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes mefurious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I knowthey gain by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'Iwill have something out of some one for my ruin, by fair means orfoul!' HE is not responsible. It's the system. But, if I do noviolence to any of them, here--I may! I don't know what may happenif I am carried beyond myself at last! I will accuse theindividual workers of that system against me, face to face, beforethe great eternal bar!"His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in such ragewithout seeing it.
"I have done!" he said, sitting down and wiping his face. "Mr.
Jarndyce, I have done! I am violent, I know. I ought to know it.
I have been in prison for contempt of court. I have been in prisonfor threatening the solicitor76. I have been in this trouble, andthat trouble, and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire,and I sometimes go beyond amusing them, though they have found itamusing, too, to see me committed into custody77 and brought up incustody and all that. It would be better for me, they tell me, ifI restrained myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself Ishould become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, Ibelieve. People in my part of the country say they remember me so,but now I must have this vent69 under my sense of injury or nothingcould hold my wits together. It would be far better for you, Mr.
Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor78 told me last week, 'not to waste yourtime here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.'
'My Lord, my Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it wouldhave been far better for me never to have heard the name of yourhigh office, but unhappily for me, I can't undo79 the past, and thepast drives me here!' Besides," he added, breaking fiercely out,"I'll shame them. To the last, I'll show myself in that court toits shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could be carriedthere, and had a voice to speak with, I would die there, saying,'You have brought me here and sent me from here many and many atime. Now send me out feet foremost!'"His countenance80 had, perhaps for years, become so set in itscontentious expression that it did not soften81, even now when he wasquiet.
"I came to take these babies down to my room for an hour," he said,going to them again, "and let them play about. I didn't mean tosay all this, but it don't much signify. You're not afraid of me,Tom, are you?""No!" said Tom. "You ain't angry with ME.""You are right, my child. You're going back, Charley? Aye? Comethen, little one!" He took the youngest child on his arm, whereshe was willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if wefound a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look forhim!"He made his former rough salutation, which was not deficient82 in acertain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, wentdownstairs to his room.
Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first time since ourarrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was reallyvery pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves topurposes. Here was this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust83 will andsurprising energy--intellectually speaking, a sort of inharmoniousblacksmith--and he could easily imagine that there Gridley was,years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend84 hissuperfluous combativeness85 upon--a sort of Young Love among thethorns--when the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodatedhim with the exact thing he wanted. There they were, matched, everafterwards! Otherwise he might have been a great general, blowingup all sorts of towns, or he might have been a great politician,dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric86; but as it was, heand the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in thepleasantest way, and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, soto speak, from that hour provided for. Then look at Coavinses!
How delightfully87 poor Coavinses (father of these charming children)illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole, himself, hadsometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had foundCoavinses in his way. He could had dispensed88 with Coavinses.
There had been times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grandvizier had said one morning, "What does the Commander of theFaithful require at the hands of his slave?" he might have evengone so far as to reply, "The head of Coavinses!" But what turnedout to be the case? That, all that time, he had been givingemployment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactorto Coavinses, that he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bringup these charming children in this agreeable way, developing thesesocial virtues89! Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled90 andthe tears had come into his eyes when he had looked round the roomand thought, "I was the great patron of Coavinses, and his littlecomforts were MY work!"There was something so captivating in his light way of touchingthese fantastic strings91, and he was such a mirthful child by theside of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardiansmile even as he turned towards us from a little private talk withMrs. Blinder. We kissed Charley, and took her downstairs with us,and stopped outside the house to see her run away to her work. Idon't know where she was going, but we saw her run, such a little,little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a coveredway at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife92 andsound like a dewdrop in an ocean.
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1
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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gusher
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| n.喷油井 | |
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configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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adulatory
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| adj. 谄媚的, 奉承的, 阿谀的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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49
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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50
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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51
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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53
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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54
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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55
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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56
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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57
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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58
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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59
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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61
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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62
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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63
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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64
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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65
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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69
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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defendants
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| 被告( defendant的名词复数 ) | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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72
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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76
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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77
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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78
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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80
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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81
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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82
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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84
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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85
combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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86
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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87
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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88
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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91
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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92
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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