"O, I am not unhappy, cousin John!" said Ada, smiling cheerfully, with her hand upon his shoulder, where she had put it in bidding him good night. "But I should be a little so, if you thought at all the worse of Richard." "My dear," said Mr. Jarndyce. "I should think the worse of him only if you were ever in the least unhappy through his means. I should be more disposed to quarrel with myself, even then, than with poor Rick, for I brought you together. But, tut, all this is nothing! He has time before him, and the race to run. I think the worse of him? Not I, my loving cousin! And not you, I swear!" "No, indeed, cousin John," said Ada, "I am sure I could not-I am sure I would not--think any ill of Richard, if the whole world did. I could, and I would, think better of him then, than at any other time !" So quietly and honestly she said it, with her hands upon his shouldersboth hands now-and looking up into his face, like the picture of Truth! "I think," said my guardian, thoughtfully regarding her, "I think it must be somewhere written that the virtues of the mothers shall, occasionally, be visited on the children, as well as the sins of the fathers. Good night, my rosebud. Good night, little woman. Pleasant slumbers! Happy dreams!" This was the first time I ever saw him follow Ada with his eyes, with something of a shadow on their benevolent expression. I well remembered the look with which he had contemplated her and Richard, when she was singing in the fire-light; it was but a very little while since he had watched them passing down the room in which the sun was shining, and away into the shade; but his glance was changed, and even the silent look of confidence in me which now followed it once more, was not quite so hopeful and untroubled as it had originally been. Ada praised Richard more to me, that night, than ever she had praised him yet. She went to sleep, with a little bracelet he had given her clasped upon her arm. I fancied she was dreaming of him when I kissed her cheek after she had slept an hour, and saw how tranquil and happy she looked. For I was so little inclined to sleep, myself, that night, that I sat up working. It would not be worth mentioning for its own sake, but I was wakeful and rather low-spirited. I don't know why. At least I don't think I know why. At least, perhaps I do, but I don't think it matters. At any rate, I made up my mind to be so dreadfully industrious that I would leave myself not a moment's leisure tc be low-spirited. For I naturally said, "Esther! You to be low-spirited. You!" And it really was time to say so, for I-yes, I really did see myself in the glass, almost crying. "As if you had anything to make you unhappy, instead of everything to make you happy, you ungrateful heart!" said I. If I could have made myself go to sleep, I would have done it directly; but, not being able to do that, I took out of my basket some ornamental work for our house (I mean Bleak House) that I was busy with at that time, and sat down to it with great determination. It was necessary to count all the stitches in that work, and I resolved to go on with it until I couldn't keep my eyes open, and then to go to bed. I soon found myself very busy. But I had left some silk down-stairs in a work-table drawer in the temporary Growlery; and coming to a stop for want of it, I took my candle and went softly down to get it. To my great surprise, on going in, I found my guardian still there, and sitting looking at the ashes. He was lost in thought, his book lay unheeded by his side, his silvered iron-grey hair was scattered confusedly upon his forehead as though his hand had been wandering among it while his thoughts were elsewhere, and his face looked worn. Almost frightened by coming upon him so unexpectedly, I stood still for a moment; and should have retired without speak-you, at least, of all the world should ing, had he not, in again passing his not magnify it to yourself, by having hand abstractedly through his hair, seen vague impressions of its nature." me and started. "Esther!". I told him what I had come for. "At work so late, my dear?" "I am working late to-night," said I, "because I couldn't sleep, and wished to tire myself. But, dear guardian, you are late too, and look weary. You have no trouble, I hope, to keep you waking?" None, little woman, that you would readily understand," said he. He spoke in a regretful tone so new to me, that I inwardly repeated, as if that would help me to his meaning, "That I could readily understand!" "Remain a moment, Esther," said he. "You were in my thoughts." "I hope I was not the trouble, guardian?" He slightly waved his hand, and fell into his usual manner. The change was so remarkable, and he appeared to make it by dint of so much self-command, that I found myself again inwardly repeating, "None that I could understand!" "Little woman," 99 said my guardian, "I was thinking-that is, I have been thinking since I have been sitting here -that you ought to know, of your own history, all I know. It is very little. Next to nothing." "Dear guardian," I replied, "when you spoke to me before on that subject "But since then," he gravely interposed, anticipating what I meant to say, "I have reflected that your having anything to ask me, and my having anything to tell you, are different considerations, Esther. It is perhaps my duty to impart to you the little I know." "If you think so, guardian, it is right." "I think so, 99 he returned, very gently, and kindly, and very distinctly. "My dear, I think so now. If any real disadvantage can attach to your position, in the mind of any man or woman worth a thought, it is right that I sat down; and said, after a little effort to be as calm as I ought to be, "One of my earliest remembrances, guardian, is of these words. 'Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were hers. The time will come, and soon enough, when you will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one save a woman can.'". I had covered my face with my hands, in repeating the words; but I took them away now with a better kind of shame, I hope, and told him, that to him I owed the blessing that I had from my child. hood to that hour never, never never felt it. He put up his hand as if to stop me. I well knew that b was never to be thanked, and said no more. "Nine years, my dear," he said after thinking for a little while, "have passed since I received a letter from & lady living in seclusion, written with a stern passion and power that rendered it unlike all other letters I have ever read. It was written to me (as it told me in so many words), perhaps, because it was the writer's idiosyncrasy to put that trust in me: perhaps, because it was mine to justify it. It told me of a child, an orphan girl then twelve years old, in some such cruel words as those which live in your remembrance. told me that the writer had bred her in secrecy from her birth, had blotted out all trace of her existence, and that if the writer were to die before the child became a woman, she would be left entirely friendless, nameless, and unknown. It asked me, to consider if I would, in that case, £nish what the writer had begun ?" It I listened in silence, and looked attentively at him. "Your early recollection, my dear, will supply the gloomy medium through which all this was seen and expressed by the writer, and the distorted religion which clouded her mind with impressions of the need there was for the child to expiate an offence of which she was quite innocent. I felt concerned so beforehand. He was going to China, and to India, as a surgeon on board ship. He was to be away a long, long time. for the little creature, in her darkened | take leave of us; he had settled to do life; and replied to the letter." I took his hand and kissed it. "It laid the injunction on me that I should never propose to see the writer, who had long been estranged from all intercourse with the world, but who would see a confidential agent if I would appoint one. I accredited Mr. Kenge. The lady said, of her own accord, and not of his seeking, that her name was an assumed one. That she was, if there were any ties of blood in such a case, the child's aunt. That more than this she would never (and he was well persuaded of the steadfastness of her resolution), for any human consideration, disclose. My dear, I have told you all." I held his hand for a little while in mine. "I saw my ward oftener than she saw me," he added, cheerily making light of it," and I always knew she was beloved, useful, and happy. She repays me twenty-thousand fold, and twenty more to that, every hour in every day!" "And oftener still," said I, "she blesses the guardian who is a Father to her!" At the word Father, I saw his former trouble come into his face. He subdued it as before, and it was gone in an instant; but, it had been there, and it had come so swiftly upon my words that I felt as if they had given him a shock. I again inwardly repeated, wondering, "That I could readily understand. None that I could readily understand!" No, it was true. I did not understand it. Not for many and many a day. "Take a fatherly good-night, my dear," said he, kissing me on the forehead, "and so to rest. These are late hours for working and thinking. You do that for all of us, all day long, little housekeeper!" I neither worked nor thought, any more, that night. I opened my grateful heart to Heaven in thankfulness for its providence to me and its care of me, and fell asleep. We had a visitor next day. Mr. Allan Woodcourt came. He came to I believe at least I know-that he was not rich. All his widowed mother could spare had been spent in qualifying him for his profession. It was not lucrative to a young practitioner, with very little influence in London; and although he was, night and day, at the service of numbers of poor people, and did wonders of gentleness and skill for them, he gained very little by it in money. He was seven years older than I. Not that I need mention it, for it hardly seems to belong to anything. I think I mean, he told us-that he had been in practice three or four years, and that if he could have hoped to contend through three or four more be would not have made the voyage on which he was bound. But he had no fortune or private means, and so he was going away. He had been to see us several times altogether. We thought it a pity he should go away. Because he was distinguished in his art among those who knew it best, and some of the greatest men belonging to it had a high opinion of him. When he came to bid us goodbye, he brought his mother with him for the first time. She was a pretty old lady, with bright black eyes, but she seemed proud. She came from Wales; and had had, a long time ago, an eminent person for an ancestor, of the name of Morgan apKerrig-of some place that sounded like Gimlet-who was the most illustrious person that ever was known, and all of whose relations were a sort of Royal Family. He appeared to have passed his life in always getting up into mountains, and fighting somebody; and a Bard whose name sounded like Crum linwallinwer had sung his praises, in a piece which was called, as nearly as I could catch it, Mewlinnwillin wodd. Mrs. Woodcourt, after expatiating to us on the fame of her great kinsman, said that, no doubt, wherever her son Allan went, he would remember his pedigree, and would on no account form an alliance below it. She told him that there were many handsome English ladies in India who went out on speculation, and that there were some to be picked up with property; but, that neither charms nor wealth would suffice for the descendant from such a line, without birth: which must ever be the first consideration. She talked so much about birth that, for a moment, I half fancied, and with pain-but, what an idle fancy to suppose that she could think or care what mine was! Mr. Woodcourt seemed a little distressed by her prolixity, but he was too considerate to let her see it, and contrived delicately to bring the conversation round to making his acknowledgments to my guardian for his hospitality, and for the very happy hours-he called them the very happy hours - he had passed with us. The recollection of them, he said, would go with him whereever he went, and would be always treasured. And so we gave him our bands, one after another—at least, they did and I did; and so he put his lips to Ada's hand-and to mine; and so he went away upon his long, long Voyage! I was very busy indeed, all day, and wrote directions home to the servants, and wrote notes for my guardian, and dusted his books and papers, and jingled my housekeeping keys a good deal, one way and another. I was still busy between the lights, singing and working by the window, when who should come in but Caddy, whom I had no expectation of seeing! "Why, Caddy, my dear," said I, "what beautiful flowers !" She had such an exquisite little nosegay in her hand. "Indeed, I think so, Esther," replied Caddy. "They are the loveliest I ever saw. "Prince, my dear?" said I, in a whisper. "No," answered Caddy, shaking her head, and holding them to me to smell. "Not Prince." "Well, to be sure, Caddy!" said I. "You must have two lovers!" "What? Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Caddy. "Do they look like that sort of thing?" I repeated, pinching her cheek. Caddy only laughed in return ; and telling me that she had come for halfan-hour, at the expiration of which time Prince would be waiting for her at the corner, sat chatting with me and Ada in the window every now and then, handing me the flowers again, or trying how they looked against my hair. At last, when she was going, she took me into my room and put them in my dress. "For me?" said I, surprised. "For you," said Caddy, with a kiss. They were left behind by Somebody. "Left behind? ?" "At poor Miss Flite's," said Caddy. 'Somebody who has been very good to her, was hurrying away an hour ago, to join a ship, and left these flowers behind. No, no! Don't take them out. Let the pretty little things lie here!" said Caddy, adjusing them with a careful hand, "because I was present myself, and I should'nt wonder if Somebody left them on purpose !" "Do they look like that sort of thing?" said Ada, coming laughingly behind me, and clasping me merrily round the waist. "O, yes, indeed they do, Dame Durden! They look very, very like that sort of thing. O, very like it indeed, my dear!" CHAPTER XVIII. LADY DEDLOCK. All this time he was, in money affairs, what I have described him in a former illustration: generous, profuse, wildly careless, but fully persuaded that he was rather calculating and prudent. I happened to say to Ada, in his presence, half-jestingly, half-seriously, about the time of his going to Mr. Kenge's, that he needed to have Fortunatus's purse, he made so light of money, which he answered in this way: Ir was not so easy as it had appeared | he was doing it to such an extent, that at first, to arrange for Richard's making he wondered his hair didn't turn grey. a trial of Mr. Kenge's office. Richard His regular wind-up of the business himself was the chief impediment. As was (as I have said), that he went to soon as he had it in his power to leave Mr. Kenge's about Midsummer, to try Mr. Badger at any moment, he began how he liked it. to doubt whether he wanted to leave him at all. He didn't know, he said, really. It wasn't a bad profession; he couldn't assert that he disliked it; perhaps he liked it as well as he liked any other-suppose he gave it one more chance! Upon that, he shut himself up, for a few weeks, with some books and some bones, and seemed to acquire a considerable fund of information with great rapidity. His fervor, after lasting about a month, began to cool; and when it was quite cooled, began to grow warm again. His vacillations between law and medicine lasted so long, that Midsummer arrived before he finally separated from Mr. Badger, and entered on an experimental course of Messrs. Kenge and Carboy. For all his waywardness, he took great credit to him self as being determined to be in earnest "this time." And he was so goodnatured throughout, and in such high spirits, and so fond of Ada, that it was very difficult indeed to be otherwise than pleased with him. "As to Mr. Jarndyce," who, I may mention, found the wind much given, during this period, to stick in the east; As to Mr. Jarndyce," Richard would say to me, "he is the finest fellow in the world, Esther! I must be particularly careful, if it were only for his satisfaction, to take myself well to task, and have a regular wind-ap of this business now." "My jewel of a dear cousin, you hear this old woman! Why does she say that? Because I gave eight pounds odd (or whatever it was) for a certain neat waistcoat and buttons a few days ago. Now, if I had stayed at Badger's I should have been obliged to spend twelve pounds at a blow, for some heartbreaking lecture-fees. So I make four pounds-in a lump-by the transaction !" It was a question much discussed between him and my guardian what arrangements should be made for his living in London, while he experimented on the law; for, we had long since gone back to Bleak House, and it was too far off to admit of his coming there oftener than once a week. My guaidian told me that Richard were to settle down at Mr. Kenge's he would take some apartments or chambers, where we, too, could occasionally stay for a few days at a time; "but little woman, he added, rubbing his head The idea of his taking himself well to very significantly, "he hasn't settled task, with that laughing face and heed- down there yet!" The discussions less manner, and with a fancy that ended in our hiring for him, by the everything could catch and nothing could month, a neat little furnished lodging hold, was ludicrously anomalous. How-in a quiet old house near Queen Square. ever, he told us between-whiles, that He immediately began to spend all the |