While we were in London Mr. Jarndyce was constantly beset by thecrowd of excitable ladies and gentlemen whose proceedings 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 perfectly 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 subscription to something, andwith her, Mr. Quale. Whatever Mrs. Pardiggle said, Mr. Qualerepeated to us; and just as he had drawn Mrs. Jellyby out, he drewMrs. Pardiggle out. Mrs. Pardiggle wrote a letter of introductionto my guardian in behalf of her eloquent friend Mr. Gusher. 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a flabbygentleman with a moist surface and eyes so much too small for hismoon of a face that they seemed to have been originally made forsomebody else, was not at first sight prepossessing; yet he wasscarcely seated before Mr.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 configuration 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, vehement in profession, restless and vain in action,servile in the last degree of meanness to the great, adulatory 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 spoke for an hour and a half on thesubject to a meeting, including two charity schools of small boysand girls, who were specially reminded of the widow's mite, 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 candid man among many opposites couldnot fail to give him pleasure. I should be sorry to imply that Mr.

　　Skimpole divined this and was politic; 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 bilious, 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 lavish manner. He had always doubled, andsometimes quadrupled, his fees. He had said to the doctor, "Now,my dear doctor, it is quite a delusion 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 scarlet. 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 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 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 unreasonable and inconvenient. 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 absurdity 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 follies, 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 refreshing, 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 hideous boycame 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 intohis 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, nameof Blinder.""Was he--I don't know how to shape the question--" murmured myguardian, "industrious?""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 inquiry. "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 aged boards, andwhen we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a manwho was standing 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 combative look and a chafing, 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 shrill voice inside said, "We are lockedin. Mrs. Blinder's got the key!"I applied 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 bonnet 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 apron. 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 forth 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 solely 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 compassionately 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 wo............