it there. And if ever in my life I saw a love that nothing but death could change, I saw it then before me.
'Speak to Esther, my dearest,' said Richard, breaking the silence presently. 'Tell her how it was.'
I met her before she could come to me and folded her in my arms.
We neither of us spoke, but with her cheek against my own I wanted to hear nothing. 'My pet,' said I. 'My love. My poor, poor girl!' I pitied her so much. I was very fond of Richard, but the impulse that I had upon me was to pity her so much.
'Esther, will you forgive me? Will my cousin John forgive me?'
'My dear,' said I, 'to doubt it for a moment is to do him a great wrong. And as to me!' Why, as to me, what had I to forgive!
I dried my sobbing darling's eyes and sat beside her on the sofa, and Richard sat on my other side; and while I was reminded of that so different night when they had first taken me into their confidence and had gone on in their own wild happy way, they told me between them how it was.
'All I had was Richard's,' Ada said; 'and Richard would not take it, Esther, and what could I do but be his wife when I loved him dearly!'
'And you were so fully and so kindly occupied, excellent Dame Durden,' said Richard, 'that how could we speak to you at such a time! And besides, it was not a long-considered step. We went out one morning and were married.'
'And when it was done, Esther,' said my darling, 'I was always thinking how to tell you and what to do for the best. And sometimes I thought you ought to know it directly, and sometimes I thought you ought not to know it and keep it from my cousin John; and I could not tell what to do, and I fretted very much.'
How selfish I must have been not to have thought of this before! I don't know what I said now. I was so sorry, and yet I was so fond of them and so glad that they were fond of me; I pitied them so much, and yet I felt a kind of pride in their loving one another.
I never had experienced such painful and pleasurable emotion at one time, and in my own heart I did not know which predominated. But I was not there to darken their way; I did not do that.
When I was less foolish and more composed, my darling took her wedding-ring from her bosom, and kissed it, and put it on. Then I remembered last night and told Richard that ever since her marriage she had worn it at night when there was no one to see. Then Ada blushingly asked me how did I know that, my dear. Then I told Ada how I had seen her hand concealed under her pillow and had little thought why, my dear. Then they began telling me how it was all over again, and I began to be sorry and glad again, and foolish again, and to hide my plain old face as much as I could lest I should put them out of heart.
Thus the time went on until it became necessary for me to think of returning. When that time arrived it was the worst of all, for then my darling completely broke down. She clung round my neck, calling me by every dear name she could think of and saying what should she do without me! Nor was Richard much better; and as for me, I should have been the worst of the three if I had not severely said to myself, 'Now Esther, if you do, I'll never speak to you again!'
'Why, I declare,' said I, 'I never saw such a wife. I don't think she loves her husband at all. Here, Richard, take my child, for goodness' sake.' But I held her tight all the while, and could have wept over her I don't know how long.
'I give this dear young couple notice,' said I, 'that I am only going away to come back to-morrow and that I shall be always coming backwards and forwards until Symond's Inn is tired of the sight of me. So I shall not say good-bye, Richard. For what would be the use of that, you know, when I am coming back so soon!'
I had given my darling to him now, and I meant to go; but I lingered for one more look of the precious face which it seemed to rive my heart to turn from.
So I said (in a merry, bustling manner) that unless they gave me some encouragement to come back, I was not sure that I could take that liberty, upon which my dear girl looked up, faintly smiling through her tears, and I folded her lovely face between my hands, and gave it one last kiss, and laughed, and ran away.
And when I got downstairs, oh, how I cried! It almost seemed to me that I had lost my Ada for ever. I was so lonely and so blank without her, and it was so desolate to be going home with no hope of seeing her there, that I could get no comfort for a little while as I walked up and down in a dim corner sobbing and crying.
I came to myself by and by, after a little scolding, and took a coach home. The poor boy whom I had found at St. Albans had reappeared a short time before and was lying at the point of death; indeed, was then dead, though I did not know it. My guardian had gone out to inquire about him and did not return to dinner. Being quite alone, I cried a little again, though on the whole I don't think I behaved so very, very ill.
It was only natural that I should not be quite accustomed to the loss of my darling yet. Three or four hours were not a long time after years. But my mind dwelt so much upon the uncongenial scene in which I had left her, and I pictured it as such an overshadowed stony-hearted one, and I so longed to be near her and taking some sort of care of her, that I determined to go back in the evening only to look up at her windows.
It was foolish, I dare say, but it did not then seem at all so to me, and it does not seem quite so even now. I took Charley into my confidence, and we went out at dusk. It was dark when we came to the new strange home of my dear girl, and there was a light behind the yellow blinds. We walked past cautiously three or four times, looking up, and narrowly missed encountering Mr. Vholes, who came out of his office while we were there and turned his head to look up too before going home. The sight of his lank black figure and the lonesome air of that nook in the dark were favourable to the state of my mind. I thought of the youth and love and beauty of my dear girl, shut up in such an ill-assorted refuge, almost as if it were a cruel place.
It was very solitary and very dull, and I did not doubt that I might safely steal upstairs. I left Charley below and went up with a light foot, not distressed by any glare from the feeble oil lanterns on the way. I listened for a few moments, and in the musty rotting silence of the house believed that I could hear the murmur of their young voices. I put my lips to the hearse-like panel of the door as a kiss for my dear and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit.
And it really did me good, for though nobody but Charley and I knew anything about it, I somehow felt as if it had diminished the separation between Ada and me and had brought us together again for those moments. I went back, not quite accustomed yet to the change, but all the better for that hovering about my darling.
My guardian had come home and was standing thoughtfully by the dark window. When I went in, his face cleared and he came to his seat, but he caught the light upon my face as I took mine.
'Little woman,' said he, 'You have been crying.'
'Why, yes, guardian,' said I, 'I am afraid I have been, a little.
Ada has been in such distress, and is so very sorry, guardian.'
I put my arm on the back of his chair, and I saw in his glance that my words and my look at her empty place had prepared him.
'Is she married, my dear?'
I told him all about it and how her first entreaties had referred to his forgiveness.
'She has no need of it,' said he. 'Heaven bless her and her husband!' But just as my first impulse had been to pity her, so was his. 'Poor girl, poor girl! Poor Rick! Poor Ada!'
Neither of us spoke after that, until he said with a sigh, 'Well, well, my dear! Bleak House is thinning fast.'
'But its mistress remains, guardian.' Though I was timid about saying it, I ventured because of the sorrowful tone in which he had spoken. 'She will do all she can to make it happy,' said I.
'She will succeed, my love!'
The letter had made no difference between us except that the seat by his side had come to be mine; it made none now. He turned his old bright fatherly look upon me, laid his hand on my hand in his old way, and said again, 'She will succeed, my dear. Nevertheless, Bleak House is thinning fast, O little woman!'
I was sorry presently that this was all we said about that. I was rather disappointed. I feared I might not quite have been all I had meant to be since the letter and the answer.
CHAPTER LII
Obstinacy
