Bleak House, by Charles Dickens (1852-1853) - Chapter 15 -
While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly
beset by the crowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings had so
much astonished us. Mr. Quale, who presented himself soon after our arrival, was
in all such excitements. He seemed to project those two shining knobs of temples
of his into everything that went on and to brush his hair farther and farther
back, until the very roots were almost ready to fly out of his head in
inappeasable philanthropy. All objects were alike to him, but he was always
particularly ready for anything in the way of a testimonial to any one. His
great power seemed to be his power of indiscriminate admiration. He would sit
for any length of time, with the utmost enjoyment, bathing his temples in the
light of any order of luminary. Having first seen him perfectly swallowed up in
admiration of Mrs. Jellyby, I had supposed her to be the absorbing object of his
devotion. I soon discovered my mistake and found him to be train-bearer and
organ-blower to a whole procession of people.
Mrs. Pardiggle came one day for a subscription to
something, and with her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Quale
repeated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drew Mrs.
Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introduction to my guardian in
behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. With Mr. Gusher appeared Mr. Quale
again. Mr. Gusher, being a flabby gentleman with a moist surface and eyes so
much too small for his moon of a face that they seemed to have been originally
made for somebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he was
scarcely 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 configuration of brow. In short, we heard of a great many missions of
various sorts among this set of people, but nothing respecting them was half so
clear to us as that it was Mr. Quale's mission to be in ecstasies with everybody
else's mission and that it was the most popular mission of all.
Mr. Jarndyce had fallen into this company in the
tenderness of his heart and his earnest desire to do all the good in his power;
but that he felt it to be too often an unsatisfactory company, where benevolence
took spasmodic forms, where charity was assumed as a regular uniform by loud
professors and speculators in cheap notoriety, vehement in profession, restless
and vain in action, servile in the last degree of meanness to the great,
adulatory of one another, and intolerable to those who were anxious quietly to
help the weak from failing rather than with a great deal of bluster and
self-laudation to raise them up a little way when they were down, 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 spoke for an hour
and a half on the subject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small
boys and girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, and requested
to come forward with halfpence and be acceptable sacrifices, I think the wind
was in the east for three whole weeks.
I mention this because I am coming to Mr. Skimpole
again. It seemed to me that his off-hand professions of childishness and
carelessness were a great relief to my guardian, by contrast with such things,
and were the more readily believed in since to find one perfectly undesigning
and candid man among many opposites could not fail to give him pleasure. I
should be sorry to imply that Mr. Skimpole divined this and was politic; I
really never understood him well enough to know. What he was to my guardian, he
certainly was to the rest of the world.
He had not been very well; and thus, though he lived in
London, we had seen nothing of him until now. He appeared one morning in his
usual agreeable way and as full of pleasant spirits as ever.
Well, he said, here he was! He had been bilious, but
rich men were often bilious, and therefore he had been persuading himself that
he was a man of property. So he was, in a certain point of view--in his
expansive intentions. He had been enriching his medical attendant in the most
lavish manner. He had always doubled, and sometimes quadrupled, his fees. He had
said to the doctor, "Now, my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion on your
part to suppose that you attend me for nothing. I am overwhelming you with
money--in my expansive intentions--if you only knew it!" And really (he
said) he meant it to that degree that he thought it much the same as doing it.
If he had had those bits of metal or thin paper to which mankind attached so
much importance to put in the doctor's hand, he would have put them in the
doctor's hand. Not having them, he substituted the will for the deed. Very well!
If he really meant it--if his will were genuine and real, which it was--it
appeared to him 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 of
the pleasant unconscious poetry of the man's nature that he always calls it a
'little' bill--to make the payment appear easy to both of 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 the little bill. You are paid. I mean it.'"
"But, suppose," said my guardian, laughing,
"he had meant the meat in the bill, instead of providing it?"
"My dear Jarndyce," he returned, "you
surprise me. You take the butcher's position. A butcher I once dealt with
occupied that very ground. Says he, 'Sir, why did you eat spring lamb at
eighteen pence a pound?' 'Why did I eat spring lamb at eighteen-pence a pound,
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!' 'My good fellow,' said I, 'pray let us reason like
intellectual beings. How could that be? It was impossible. You HAD got the lamb,
and I have NOT got the money. You couldn't really mean the lamb without sending
it in, whereas I can, and do, really mean the money without paying it!' He had
not a word. There was an end of the subject."
"Did he take no legal proceedings?" inquired
"Yes, he took legal proceedings," said Mr.
Skimpole. "But in that he was influenced by passion, not by reason. Passion
reminds me of Boythorn. He writes me that you and the ladies have promised him a
short visit at his bachelor-house in Lincolnshire."
"He is a great favourite with my girls," said
Mr. Jarndyce, "and I have promised for them."
"Nature forgot to shade him off, I think,"
observed Mr. Skimpole to Ada and me. "A little too boisterous--like the
sea. A little too vehement--like a bull who has made up his mind to consider
every colour scarlet. But I grant a sledge-hammering sort of merit in him!"
I should have been surprised if those two could have
thought very highly of one another, Mr. Boythorn attaching so much importance to
many things and Mr. Skimpole caring so little for anything. Besides which, I had
noticed Mr. Boythorn more than once on the point of breaking out into some
strong opinion when Mr. Skimpole was referred to. Of course I merely joined Ada
in saying that we had been greatly pleased with him.
"He has invited me," said Mr. Skimpole;
"and if a child may trust himself 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 will cost money?
Shillings perhaps? Or pounds? Or something of that sort? 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 embarrassment.
"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 with anything but a serious association the image of the man sitting on
the 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 calls it. He came yesterday, on my blue-eyed daughter's birthday. I put
it to him, 'This is unreasonable and inconvenient. If you had a blue-eyed
daughter you wouldn't like ME to come, uninvited, on HER birthday?' But he
Mr. Skimpole laughed at the pleasant absurdity and
lightly touched the piano by which he was seated.
"And he told me," he said, playing little
chords where I shall put full stops, "The Coavinses had left. Three
children. No mother. And that Coavinses' profession. Being unpopular. The rising
Coavinses. 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 what was passing in his mind.
After walking and stopping, and several times leaving
off rubbing his head, and beginning again, my guardian put his hand upon the
keys and stopped Mr. Skimpole's playing. "I don't like this,
Skimpole," he said thoughtfully.
Mr. Skimpole, who had quite forgotten the subject,
looked up surprised.
"The man was necessary," pursued my guardian,
walking backward and forward in the very short space between the piano and the
end of the room and rubbing his hair up from the back of his head as if a high
east wind had blown it into that form. "If we make such men necessary by
our faults and follies, or by our want of worldly knowledge, or by our
misfortunes, we must not revenge ourselves upon them. There was no harm in his
trade. He maintained his children. One would like to know more about this."
"Oh! Coavinses?" cried Mr. Skimpole, at length
perceiving what he meant. "Nothing easier. A walk to Coavinses'
headquarters, and you 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 soon as
another!" We were quickly ready and went out. Mr. Skimpole went with us and
quite enjoyed the expedition. It was so new and so refreshing, he said, for him
to want Coavinses instead of Coavinses wanting him!
He took us, first, to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane,
where there was a house with barred windows, which he called Coavinses' Castle.
On our going into the entry and ringing a bell, a very hideous boy came out of a
sort of office and looked at us over a spiked wicket.
"Who did you want?" said the boy, fitting two
of the spikes into his chin.
"There was a follower, 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, name of Blinder."
"Was he--I don't know how to shape the
question--" murmured my guardian, "industrious?"
"Was Neckett?" said the boy. "Yes, wery
much so. He was never tired of watching. He'd set upon a post at a street corner
eight or ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it."
"He might have done worse," I heard my
guardian soliloquize. "He might have undertaken to do it and not done it.
Thank you. That's all I want."
We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms
on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln's Inn,
where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer Coavinses, awaited us.
Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrow alley 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 an asthma, or perhaps both.
"Neckett's children?" said she in reply to my
inquiry. "Yes, Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite
the stairs." And she handed me the key across the counter.
I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it
for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the
children's door, I came out without askmg any more questions and led the way up
the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but four of us made some noise
on the aged boards, and when we came to the second story we found we had
disturbed a man who was standing there looking out of his room.
"Is it Gridley that's wanted?" he said, fixing
his eyes on me with an angry stare.
"No, sir," said I; "I am going higher
He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr.
Skimpole, fixing the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and
followed me. Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day. "Good day!" he said
abruptly and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head on which
but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent eyes. He had a
combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which, associated with his
figure--still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline--rather
alarmed me. He had a pen in his hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in
passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter of papers.
Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room.
I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, "We are locked
in. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"
I applied the key on hearing this and opened the door.
In a poor room with a sloping ceiling and containing very little furniture was a
mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of
eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children
were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets as a substitute. Their clothing was
not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched and their
small figures shrunken as the boy walked up and down nursing and hushing the
child with its head on his shoulder.
"Who has locked you up here alone?" we
"Charley," said the boy, standing still to
gaze at us.
"Is Charley your brother?"
"No. She's my sister, Charlotte. Father called her
"Are there any more of you besides Charley?"
"Me," said the boy, "and Emma,"
patting the limp bonnet of the child he was nursing. "And Charley."
"Where is Charley now?"
"Out a-washing," said the boy, beginning to
walk up and down again and taking the nankeen bonnet much too near the bedstead
by trying to gaze at us at the same time.
We were looking at one another and at these two children
when there came into the room a very little girl, childish in figure but shrewd
and older-looking in the face--pretty-faced too--wearing a womanly sort of
bonnet much too large for her and drying her bare arms on a womanly sort of
apron. Her fingers were white and wrinkled with washing, and the soap-suds were
yet smoking which she wiped off her arms. But for this, she might have been a
child playing at washing and imitating a poor working-woman with a quick
observation of the truth.
She had come running from some place in the
neighbourhood and had made all the haste she could. Consequently, though she was
very light, she was out of breath and could not speak at first, as she stood
panting, and wiping her arms, and looking quietly at us.
"Oh, here's Charley!" said the boy.
The child he was nursing stretched forth its arms and
cried out to be taken by Charley. The little girl took it, in a womanly sort of
manner belonging to the apron and the bonnet, and stood looking at us over the
burden that clung to her most affectionately.
"Is it possible," whispered my guardian as we
put a chair for the little creature and got her to sit down with her load, the
boy keeping close to her, holding to her apron, "that this child works for
the rest? Look at this! For God's sake, look at this!"
It was a thing to look at. The three children close
together, and two of them relying solely on the third, and the third so young
and yet with an air of age and steadiness that sat so strangely on the childish
"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, half playfully yet all the more compassionately and mournfully.
"And do you live alone here with these babies,
Charley?" said my guardian.
"Yes, sir," returned the child, looking up
into his face with perfect 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
"Since father died, sir, I've gone out to work. I'm
out washing to-day."
"God help you, Charley!" said my guardian.
"You're not tall enough to reach the tub!"
"In pattens I am, sir," she said quickly.
"I've got a high pair as belonged to mother."
"And when did mother die? Poor mother!"
"Mother died just after Emma was born," said
the child, glancing at the face upon her bosom. "Then father said I was to
be as good a mother to her as I could. And so I tried. And so I worked at home
and did cleaning and nursing and washing for a long time before I began 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
'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, and
Tom an't afraid of being locked up, are you, Tom?"
'"No-o!" said Tom stoutly.
"When it comes on dark, the lamps are lighted down
in the court, and they show up here quite bright--almost quite bright. Don't
"Yes, Charley," said Tom, "almost quite
"Then he's as good as gold," said the little
creature--Oh, in such a motherly, womanly way! "And when Emma's tired, he
puts her to bed. And when he's tired he goes to bed himself. And when I come
home and light the candle and has a bit of supper, he sits up again and has it
with me. Don't you, Tom?"
"Oh, yes, Charley!" said Tom. "That I
do!" And either in this glimpse of the great pleasure of his life or in
gratitude and love for Charley, who was all in all to him, he laid his face
among the scanty folds of her frock and passed from laughing into crying.
It was the first time since our entry that a tear had
been shed among these children. The little orphan girl had spoken of their
father and their mother as if all that sorrow were subdued by the necessity of
taking courage, and by her childish importance in being able to work, and by her
bustling busy way. But now, when Tom cried, although she sat quite tranquil,
looking quietly at us, and did not by any movement disturb a hair of the head of
either of her little charges, I saw two silent tears fall down her face.
I stood at the window with Ada, pretending to look at
the housetops, and the blackened stack of chimneys, and the poor plants, 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 was talking to my guardian.
"It's not much to forgive 'em the rent, sir,"
she said; "who could take it from them!"
'"Well, well!" said my guardian to us two.
"It is enough that the time will come when this good woman will find that
it WAS much, and that forasmuch as she did it unto the least of these--This
child," he added after a few moments, "could she possibly continue
"Really, sir, I think she might," said Mrs.
Blinder, getting her heavy breath by painful degrees. "She's as handy as
it's possible to be. Bless you, sir, the way she tended them two children after
the mother died was the talk of the yard! And it was a wonder to see 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 angel sitting in this room last night along with my child, and I
trust her 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 lodge here, I didn't know what he
was, and I confess that when I found out I gave him notice. It wasn't liked in
the yard. It wasn't approved by the other lodgers. It is NOT a genteel
calling," said Mrs. Blinder, "and most people do object to it. Mr.
Gridley objected to it very strong, and he is a good lodger, 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 the time came, and I knew no other ill of him, I was in
doubts. He was punctual and diligent; he did what he had to do, sir," said
Mrs. Blinder, unconsciously fixing Mr. Skimpole with her eye, "and it's
something 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 could arrange it with the other lodgers and should not so much mind
its being liked or disliked in the yard. Mr. Gridley gave his consent gruff--but
gave it. He was always gruff with him, but he has been kind to the children
since. A person is never known till a person is proved."
"Have many people been kind to the children?"
asked Mr. Jarndyce.
"Upon the whole, not so bad, sir," said Mrs.
Blinder; "but certainly not so many as would have been if their father's
calling had been different. Mr. Coavins gave a guinea, and the follerers made up
a little purse. Some neighbours in the yard that had always joked and tapped
their shoulders when he went by came forward with a little subscription, and--in
general--not so bad. Similarly with Charlotte. Some people won't employ her
because she was a follerer's child; some people that do employ her cast it at
her; some make a merit of having her to work for them, with that and all her
draw-backs upon her, and perhaps pay her less and put upon her more. But she's
patienter than others would be, and is clever too, and always willing, up to the
full mark of her strength and over. So I should say, in general, not so bad,
sir, but might be better."
Mrs. Blinder sat down to give herself a more favourable
opportunity of recovering her breath, exhausted anew by so much talking before
it was fully restored. Mr. Jarndyce was turning to speak to us when his
attention was attracted by the abrupt entrance into the room of the Mr. Gridley
who had been mentioned and whom we had seen on our way up.
"I don't know what you may be doing here, ladies
and gentlemen," he said, as if he resented our presence, "but you'll
excuse my coming in. 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 bent over the group in a caressing way and clearly
was regarded as a friend by the children, though his face retained its stern
character and his manner to us was as rude as it could be. My guardian noticed
it and respected it.
"No one, surely, would come here to stare about
him," he said mildly.
"May be so, sir, may be so," returned the
other, taking Tom upon his knee and waving him off impatiently. "I don't
want to argue with ladies and gentlemen. I have had enough of arguing to last
one man his life."
"You have sufficient reason, I dare say," said
Mr. Jarndyce, "for being chafed and irritated--"
"There again!" exclaimed the man, becoming
violently angry. "I am of a quarrelsome temper. I am irascible. I am not
"Not very, I think."
"Sir," said Gridley, putting down the child
and going up to him as if he meant to strike him, "do you know anything of
Courts of Equity?"
"Perhaps I do, to my sorrow."
"To your sorrow?" said the man, pausing in his
wrath. "if so, I beg your pardon. I am not polite, I know. I beg your
pardon! Sir," with renewed violence, "I have been dragged for five and
twenty years over burning iron, and I have lost the habit of treading upon
velvet. Go into the Court of Chancery yonder and ask what is one of the standing
jokes that brighten up their business sometimes, and they will tell you that the
best joke they have is the man from Shropshire. I," he said, beating one
hand on the other passionately, "am the man from Shropshire."
"I believe I and my family have also had the honour
of furnishing some entertainment in the same grave place," said my guardian
composedly. "You may have heard my name--Jarndyce."
"Mr. Jarndyce," said Gridley with a rough sort
of salutation, "you bear your wrongs more quietly than I can bear mine.
More than that, I tell you--and I tell this gentleman, and these young ladies,
if they are friends of yours--that if I took my wrongs in any other way, I
should be driven mad! It is only by resenting them, and by revenging them in my
mind, and by angrily demanding the justice I never get, that I am able to keep
my wits together. It is only that!" he said, speaking in a homely, rustic
way and with great vehemence. "You may tell me that I over-excite myself. I
answer that it's in my nature to do it, under wrong, and I must do it. There's
nothing between doing it, and sinking into the smiling state of the poor little
mad woman that haunts the court. If I was once to sit down under it, I should
The passion and heat in which he was, and the manner in
which his face worked, and the violent gestures with which he accompanied what
he said, were most painful to see.
"Mr. Jarndyce," he said, "consider my
case. As true as there is a heaven above us, this is my case. I am one of two
brothers. My father (a farmer) made a will and left his farm and stock and so
forth to my mother for her life. After my mother's death, all was to come to me
except a legacy of three hundred pounds that I was then to pay my brother. My
mother died. My brother some time afterwards claimed his legacy. I and some of
my relations said that he had had a part of it already in board and lodging and
some other things. Now mind! That was the question, and nothing else. No one
disputed the will; no one disputed anything but whether part of that three
hundred pounds had been already paid or not. To settle that question, my brother
filing a bill, I was obliged to go into this accursed Chancery; I was forced
there because the law forced me and would let me go nowhere else. Seventeen
people were made defendants to that simple suit! It first came on after two
years. 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 another who had been left out and must begin all over again. The costs at
that time--before the thing was begun!--were three times the legacy. My brother
would have given up the legacy, and joyful, to escape more costs. My whole
estate, left to me in that will of my father's, has gone in costs. The suit,
still undecided, has fallen into rack, and ruin, and despair, with everything
else--and here I stand, this day! Now, Mr. Jarndyce, in your suit there are
thousands and thousands involved, where in mine there are hundreds. Is mine less
hard to bear or is it harder to bear, when my whole living was in it and has
been thus shamefully sucked away?"
Mr. Jarndyce said that he condoled with him with all his
heart and that he set up no monopoly himself in being unjustly treated by this
"There again!" said Mr. Gridley with no
diminution of his rage. "The system! I am told on all hands, it's the
system. I mustn't look to individuals. It's the system. I mustn't go into court
and say, '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 therefore am dismissed?' My Lord
knows nothing of it. He sits there to administer the system. I mustn't go to Mr.
Tulkinghorn, the solicitor in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and say to him when he makes
me furious by being so cool and satisfied--as they all do, for I know they gain
by it while I lose, don't I?--I mustn't say to him, 'I will have something out
of some one for my ruin, by fair means or foul!' HE is not responsible. It's the
system. But, if I do no violence to any of them, here--I may! I don't know what
may happen if I am carried beyond myself at last! I will accuse the individual
workers of that system against me, face to face, before the great eternal
His passion was fearful. I could not have believed in
such rage without 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 prison
for threatening the solicitor. I have been in this trouble, and that trouble,
and shall be again. I am the man from Shropshire, and I sometimes go beyond
amusing them, though they have found it amusing, too, to see me committed into
custody and brought up in custody and all that. It would be better for me, they
tell me, if I restrained myself. I tell them that if I did restrain myself I
should become imbecile. I was a good-enough-tempered man once, I believe. People
in my part of the country say they remember me so, but now I must have this vent
under my sense of injury or nothing could hold my wits together. It would be far
better for you, Mr. Gridley,' the Lord Chancellor told me last week, 'not to
waste your time here, and to stay, usefully employed, down in Shropshire.' 'My
Lord, my Lord, I know it would,' said I to him, 'and it would have been far
better for me never to have heard the name of your high office, but unhappily
for me, I can't undo the past, and the past drives me here!' Besides," he
added, breaking fiercely out, "I'll shame them. To the last, I'll show
myself in that court to its shame. If I knew when I was going to die, and could
be carried there, 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 a time. Now send me out
His countenance had, perhaps for years, become so set in
its contentious expression that it did not soften, even now when he was quiet.
"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 to say 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
"You are right, my child. You're going back,
Charley? Aye? Come then, little one!" He took the youngest child on his
arm, where she was willing enough to be carried. "I shouldn't wonder if we
found a ginger-bread soldier downstairs. Let's go and look for him!"
He made his former rough salutation, which was not
deficient in a certain respect, to Mr. Jarndyce, and bowing slightly to us, went
downstairs to his room.
Upon that, Mr. Skimpole began to talk, for the first
time since our arrival, in his usual gay strain. He said, Well, it was really
very pleasant to see how things lazily adapted themselves to purposes. Here was
this Mr. Gridley, a man of a robust will and surprising energy--intellectually
speaking, a sort of inharmonious blacksmith--and he could easily imagine that
there Gridley was, years ago, wandering about in life for something to expend
his superfluous combativeness upon--a sort of Young Love among the thorns--when
the Court of Chancery came in his way and accommodated him with the exact thing
he wanted. There they were, matched, ever afterwards! Otherwise he might have
been a great general, blowing up all sorts of towns, or he might have been a
great politician, dealing in all sorts of parliamentary rhetoric; but as it was,
he and the Court of Chancery had fallen upon each other in the pleasantest way,
and nobody was much the worse, and Gridley was, so to speak, from that hour
provided for. Then look at Coavinses! How delightfully poor Coavinses (father of
these charming children) illustrated the same principle! He, Mr. Skimpole,
himself, had sometimes repined at the existence of Coavinses. He had found
Coavinses in his way. He could had dispensed with Coavinses. There had been
times when, if he had been a sultan, and his grand vizier had said one morning,
"What does the Commander of the Faithful require at the hands of his
slave?" he might have even gone so far as to reply, "The head of
Coavinses!" But what turned out to be the case? That, all that time, he had
been giving employment to a most deserving man, that he had been a benefactor to
Coavinses, that he had actually been enabling Coavinses to bring up these
charming children in this agreeable way, developing these social virtues!
Insomuch that his heart had just now swelled and the tears had come into his
eyes when he had looked round the room and thought, "I was the great patron
of Coavinses, and his little comforts were MY work!"
There was something so captivating in his light way of
touching these fantastic strings, and he was such a mirthful child by the side
of the graver childhood we had seen, that he made my guardian smile even as he
turned towards us from a little private talk with Mrs. Blinder. We kissed
Charley, and took her downstairs with us, and stopped outside the house to see
her run away to her work. I don't know where she was going, but we saw her run,
such a little, little creature in her womanly bonnet and apron, through a
covered way at the bottom of the court and melt into the city's strife and sound
like a dewdrop in an ocean.