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"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 what I don't understand." Taking a little more claret and dipping one of the cakes in it, he shook his head and smiled at Ada and me with an ingenuous foreboding that he never could be made to understand.
Time is no object here. We never know what o'clock it is, and we never care. Not the way to get on in 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.
I only hope he won't make "copy" out of me and my situation. LETTER: From Harold Skimpole, Esq., to the Rev. Charles Honeyman, M.A. These letters tell their own tale of Genius and Virtue indigent and in chains. The eloquence of a Honeyman, the accomplishments of a Skimpole, lead only to Cursitor Street. Coavins's, Cursitor Street, May 1.
It may be conventional prejudice, but I seem to see him going about on a tricycle, and I don't think him the right person for Phoebe. Perhaps it is really the beautiful, gentle, oppressed Clifford who haunts one's memory most, a kind of tragic and thwarted Harold Skimpole. "How pleasant, how delightful," he murmured, but not as if addressing any one. "Will it last?
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?"
Skimpole, "I will do anything to give 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 only to 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 a shower of money."
I regarded this as very treacherous on the part of Mr. Skimpole towards my guardian and as passing the usual bounds of his childish innocence. "Bounds, my dear?" returned Mr. Bucket. "Bounds? Now, Miss Summerson, I'll give you a piece of advice that your husband will find useful when you are happily married and have got a family about you.
Skimpole with his usual happy and easy air, "are public benefactors. They are good enough to maintain a number of delightful objects for the admiration and pleasure of us poor men; and not to reap all the admiration and pleasure that they yield is to be ungrateful to our benefactors." Sir Leicester seemed to approve of this sentiment highly. "An artist, sir?" "No," returned Mr. Skimpole.
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 would advise with Skimpole?" "Encourager would perhaps have been a better word," said I. "Encourager!" returned my guardian again. "Who could be encouraged by Skimpole?" "Not Richard?" I asked. "No," he replied.
I gathered from the conversation that Mr. Skimpole had been educated for the medical profession and had once lived, in his professional capacity, in the household of a German prince. In fact, he said, he had no head for detail.
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