It matters little now how much I thought of my living mother whohad told me evermore to consider her dead. I could not venture toapproach her or to communicate with her in writing, for my sense ofthe peril in which her life was passed was only to be equalled bymy fears of increasing it. Knowing that my mere existence as aliving creature was an unforeseen danger in her way, I could notalways conquer that terror of myself which had seized me when Ifirst knew the secret. At no time did I dare to utter her name. Ifelt as if I did not even dare to hear it. If the conversationanywhere, when I was present, took that direction, as it sometimesnaturally did, I tried not to hear: I mentally counted, repeatedsomething that I knew, or went out of the room. I am conscious nowthat I often did these things when there can have been no danger ofher being spoken of, but I did them in the dread I had of hearinganything that might lead to her betrayal, and to her betrayalthrough me.

　　It matters little now how often I recalled the tones of my mother'svoice, wondered whether I should ever hear it again as I so longedto do, and thought how strange and desolate it was that it shouldbe so new to me. It matters little that I watched for every publicmention of my mother's name; that I passed and repassed the door ofher house in town, loving it, but afraid to look at it; that I oncesat in the theatre when my mother was there and saw me, and when wewere so wide asunder before the great company of all degrees thatany link or confidence between us seemed a dream. It is all, allover. My lot has been so blest that I can relate little of myselfwhich is not a story of goodness and generosity in others. I maywell pass that little and go on.

　　When we were settled at home again, Ada and I had manyconversations with my guardian of which Richard was the theme. Mydear girl was deeply grieved that he should do their kind cousin somuch wrong, but she was so faithful to Richard that she could notbear to blame him even for that. My guardian was assured of it,and never coupled his name with a word of reproof. "Rick ismistaken, my dear," he would say to her. "Well, well! We have allbeen mistaken over and over again. We must trust to you and timeto set him right."We knew afterwards what we suspected then, that he did not trust totime until he had often tried to open Richard's eyes. That he hadwritten to him, gone to him, talked with him, tried every gentleand persuasive art his kindness could devise. Our poor devotedRichard was deaf and blind to all. If he were wrong, he would makeamends when the Chancery suit was over. If he were groping in thedark, he could not do better than do his utmost to clear away thoseclouds in which so much was confused and obscured. Suspicion andmisunderstanding were the fault of the suit? Then let him work thesuit out and come through it to his right mind. This was hisunvarying reply. Jarndyce and Jarndyce had obtained suchpossession of his whole nature that it was impossible to place anyconsideration before him which he did not, with a distorted kind ofreason, make a new argument in favour of his doing what he did.

　　"So that it is even more mischievous," said my guardian once to me,"to remonstrate with the poor dear fellow than to leave him alone."I took one of these opportunities of mentioning my doubts of Mr.

　　Skimpole as a good adviser for Richard.

　　"Adviser!" returned my guardian, laughing, "My dear, who wouldadvise with Skimpole?""Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I.

　　"Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouragedby Skimpole?""Not Richard?" I asked.

　　"No," he replied. "Such an unworldly, uncalculating, gossamercreature is a relief to him and an amusement. But as to advisingor encouraging or occupying a serious station towards anybody oranything, it is simply not to be thought of in such a child asSkimpole.""Pray, cousin John," said Ada, who had just joined us and nowlooked over my shoulder, "what made him such a child?""What made him such a child?" inquired my guardian, rubbing hishead, a little at a loss.

　　"Yes, cousin John.""Why," he slowly replied, roughening his head more and more, "he isall sentiment, and--and susceptibility, and--and sensibility, and--and imagination. And these qualities are not regulated in him,somehow. I suppose the people who admired him for them in hisyouth attached too much importance to them and too little to anytraining that would have balanced and adjusted them, and so hebecame what he is. Hey?" said my guardian, stopping short andlooking at us hopefully. "What do you think, you two?"Ada, glancing at me, said she thought it was a pity he should be anexpense to Richard.

　　"So it is, so it is," returned my guardian hurriedly. "That mustnot be. We must arrange that. I must prevent it. That will neverdo."And I said I thought it was to be regretted that he had everintroduced Richard to Mr. Vholes for a present of five pounds.

　　"Did he?" said my guardian with a passing shade of vexation on hisface. "But there you have the man. There you have the man! Thereis nothing mercenary in that with him. He has no idea of the valueof money. He introduces Rick, and then he is good friends with Mr.

　　Vholes and borrows five pounds of him. He means nothing by it andthinks nothing of it. He told you himself, I'll be bound, mydear?""Oh, yes!" said I.

　　"Exactly!" cried my guardian, quite triumphant. "There you havethe man! If he had meant any harm by it or was conscious of anyharm in it, he wouldn't tell it. He tells it as he does it in meresimplicity. But you shall see him in his own home, and then you'llunderstand him better. We must pay a visit to Harold Skimpole andcaution him on these points. Lord bless you, my dears, an infant,an infant!"In pursuance of this plan, we went into London on an early day andpresented ourselves at Mr. Skimpole's door.

　　He lived in a place called the Polygon, in Somers Town, where therewere at that time a number of poor Spanish refugees walking aboutin cloaks, smoking little paper cigars. Whether he was a bettertenant than one might have supposed, in consequence of his friendSomebody always paying his rent at last, or whether his inaptitudefor business rendered it particularly difficult to turn him out, Idon't know; but he had occupied the same house some years. It wasin a state of dilapidation quite equal to our expectation. Two orthree of the area railings were gone, the water-butt was broken,the knocker was loose, the bell-handle had been pulled off a longtime to judge from the rusty state of the wire, and dirtyfootprints on the steps were the only signs of its being inhabited.

　　A slatternly full-blown girl who seemed to be bursting out at therents in her gown and the cracks in her shoes like an over-ripeberry answered our knock by opening the door a very little way andstopping up the gap with her figure. As she knew Mr. Jarndyce(indeed Ada and I both thought that she evidently associated himwith the receipt of her wages), she immediately relented andallowed us to pass in. The lock of the door being in a disabledcondition, she then applied herself to securing it with the chain,which was not in good action either, and said would we go upstairs?

　　We went upstairs to the first floor, still seeing no otherfurniture than the dirty footprints. Mr. Jarndyce without furtherceremony entered a room there, and we followed. It was dingyenough and not at all clean, but furnished with an odd kind ofshabby luxury, with a large footstool, a sofa, and plenty ofcushions, an easy-chair, and plenty of pillows, a piano, books,drawing materials, music, newspapers, and a few sketches andpictures. A broken pane of glass in one of the dirty windows waspapered and wafered over, but there was a little plate of hothousenectarines on the table, and there was another of grapes, andanother of sponge-cakes, and there was a bottle of light wine. Mr.

　　Skimpole himself reclined upon the sofa in a dressing-gown,drinking some fragrant coffee from an old china cup--it was thenabout mid-day--and looking at a collection of wallflowers in thebalcony.

　　He was not in the least disconcerted by our appearance, but roseand received us in his usual airy manner.

　　"Here I am, you see!" he said when we were seated, not without somelittle difficulty, the greater part of the chairs being broken.

　　"Here I am! This is my frugal breakfast. Some men want legs ofbeef and mutton for breakfast; I don't. Give me my peach, my cupof coffee, and my claret; I am content. I don't want them forthemselves, but they remind me of the sun. There's nothing solarabout legs of beef and mutton. Mere animal satisfaction!""This is our friend's consulting-room (or would be, if he everprescribed), his sanctum, his studio," said my guardian to us.

　　"Yes," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his bright face about, "this isthe bird's cage. This is where the bird lives and sings. Theypluck his feathers now and then and clip his wings, but he sings,he sings!"He handed us the grapes, repeating in his radiant way, "He sings!

　　Not an ambitious note, but still he sings.""These are very fine," said my guardian. "A present?""No," he answered. "No! Some amiable gardener sells them. His manwanted to know, when he brought them last evening, whether heshould wait for the money. 'Really, my friend,' I said, 'I thinknot--if your time is of any value to you.' I suppose it was, forhe went away."My guardian looked at us with a smile, as though he asked us, "Isit possible to be worldly with this baby?""This is a day," said Mr. Skimpole, gaily taking a little claret ina tumbler, "that will ever be remembered here. We shall call itSaint Clare and Saint Summerson day. You must see my daughters. Ihave a blue-eyed daughter who is my Beauty daughter, I have aSentiment daughter, and I have a Comedy daughter. You must seethem all. They'll be enchanted."He was going to summon them when my guardian interposed and askedhim to pause a moment, as he wished to say a word to him first.

　　"My dear Jarndyce," he cheerfully replied, going back to his sofa,"as many moments as you please. Time is no object here. We neverknow what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get onin life, you'll tell me? Certainly. But we DON'T get on in life.

　　We don't pretend to do it."My guardian looked at us again, plainly saying, "You hear him?""Now, Harold," he began, "the word I have to say relates to Rick.""The dearest friend I have!" returned Mr. Skimpole cordially. "Isuppose he ought not to be my dearest friend, as he is not on termswith you. But he is, I can't help it; he is full of youthfulpoetry, and I love him. If you don't like it, I can't help it. Ilove him."The engaging frankness with which he made this declaration reallyhad a disinterested appearance and captivated my guardian, if not,for the moment, Ada too.

　　"You are welcome to love him as much as you like," returned Mr.

　　Jarndyce, "but we must save his pocket, Harold.""Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole. "His pocket? Now you are coming to whatI don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping oneof the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me withan ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.

　　"If you go with him here or there," said my guardian plainly, "youmust not let him pay for both.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, his genial faceirradiated by the comicality of this idea, "what am I to do? If hetakes me anywhere, I must go. And how can I pay? I never have anymoney. If I had any money, I don't know anything about it.

　　Suppose I say to a man, how much? Suppose the man says to me sevenand sixpence? I know nothing about seven and sixpence. It isimpossible for me to pursue the subject with any consideration forthe man. I don't go about asking busy people what seven andsixpence is in Moorish--which I don't understand. Why should I goabout asking them what seven and sixpence is in Money--which Idon't understand?""Well," said my guardian, by no means displeased with this artlessreply, "if you come to any kind of journeying with Rick, you mustborrow the money of me (never breathing the least allusion to thatcircumstance), and leave the calculation to him.""My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "I will do anything togive you pleasure, but it seems an idle form--a superstition.

　　Besides, I give you my word, Miss Clare and my dear Miss Summerson,I thought Mr. Carstone was immensely rich. I thought he had onlyto make over something, or to sign a bond, or a draft, or a cheque,or a bill, or to put something on a file somewhere, to bring down ashower of money.""Indeed it is not so, sir," said Ada. "He is poor.""No, really?" returned Mr. Skimpole with his bright smile. "Yousurprise me.

　　"And not being the richer for trusting in a rotten reed," said myguardian, laying his hand emphatically on the sleeve of Mr.

　　Skimpole's dressing-gown, "be you very careful not to encourage himin that reliance, Harold.""My dear good friend," returned Mr. Skimpole, "and my dear MissSiunmerson, and my dear Miss Clare, how can I do that? It'sbusiness, and I don't know business. It is he who encourages me.

　　He emerges from great feats of business, presents the brightestprospects before me as their result, and calls upon me to admirethem. I do admire them--as bright prospects. But I know no moreabout them, and I tell him so."The helpless kind of candour with which he presented this beforeus, the light-hearted manner in which he was amused by hisinnocence, the fantastic way in which he took himself under his ownprotection and argued about that curious person, combined with thedelightful ease of everything he said exactly to make out myguardian's case. The more I saw of him, the more unlikely itseemed to me, when he was present, that he could design, conceal,or influence anything; and yet the less likely that appeared whenhe was not present, and the less agreeable it was to think of hishaving anything to do with any one for whom I cared.

　　Hearing that his examination (as he called it) was now over, Mr.

　　Skimpole left the room with a radiant face to fetch his daughters(his sons had run away at various times), leaving my guardian quitedelighted by the manner in which he had vindicated his childishcharacter. He soon came back, bringing with him the three youngladies and Mrs. Skimpole, who had once been a beauty but was now adelicate high-nosed invalid suffering under a complication ofdisorders.

　　"This," said Mr. Skimpole, "is my Beauty daughter, Arethusa--playsand sings odds and ends like her father. This is my Sentimentdaughter, Laura--plays a little but don't sing. This is my Comedydaughter, Kitty--sings a little but don't play. We all draw alittle and compose a little, and none of us have any idea of timeor money."Mrs. Skimpole sighed, I thought, as if she would have been glad tostrike out this item in the family attainments. I also thoughtthat she rather impressed her sigh upon my guardian and that shetook every opportunity of throwing in another.

　　"It is pleasant," said Mr. Skimpole, turning his sprightly eyesfrom one to the other of us, "and it is whimsically interesting totrace peculiarities in families. In this family we are allchildren, and I am the youngest."The daughters, who appeared to be very fond of him, were amused bythis droll fact, particularly the Comedy daughter.

　　"My dears, it is true," said Mr. Skimpole, "is it not? So it is,and so it must be, because like the dogs in the hymn, 'it is ournature to.' Now, here is Miss Summerson with a fine administrativecapacity and a knowledge of details perfectly surprising. It willsound very strange in Miss Summerson's ears, I dare say, that weknow nothing about chops in this house. But we don't, not theleast. We can't cook anything whatever. A needle and thread wedon't know how to use. We admire the people who possess thepractical wisdom we want, but we don't quarrel with them. Then whyshould they quarrel with us? Live and let live, we say to them.

　　Live upon your practical wisdom, and let us live upon you!"He laughed, but as usual seemed quite candid and really to meanwhat he said.

　　"We have sympathy, my roses," said Mr. Skimpole, "sympathy foreverything. Have we not?""Oh, yes, papa!" cried the three daughters.

　　"In fact, that is our family department," said Mr. Skimpole, "inthis hurly-burly of life. We are capable of looking on and ofbeing interested, and we DO look on, and we ARE interested. Whatmore can we do? Here is my Beauty daughter, married these threeyears. Now I dare say her marrying another child, and having twomore, was all wrong in point of political economy, but it was veryagreeable. We had our little festivities on those occasions andexchanged social ideas. She brought her young husband home oneday, and they and their young fledglings have their nest upstairs.

　　I dare say at som............