this, my dear,' said I. 'It must be very good of Mrs. Jellyby to take such pains about a scheme for the benefit of Natives – and yet – Peepy and the housekeeping!'
Ada laughed; and put her arm about my neck, as I stood looking at the fire; and told me I was a quiet, dear, good creature, and had won her heart. 'You are so thoughtful, Esther,' she said, 'and yet so cheerful! and you do so much, so unpretendingly! You would make a home out of even this house.'
My simple darling! She was quite unconscious that she only praised herself, and that it was in the goodness of her own heart that she made so much of me!
'May I ask you a question?' said I, when we had sat before the fire a little while.
'Five hundred,' said Ada.
'Your cousin, Mr. Jarndyce. I owe so much to him. Would you mind describing him to me?'
Shaking her golden hair, Ada turned her eyes upon me with such laughing wonder, that I was full of wonder too – partly at her beauty, partly at her surprise.
'Esther!' she cried.
'My dear!'
'You want a description of my cousin Jarndyce?'
'My dear, I never saw him.'
'And I never saw him!' returned Ada.
Well, to be sure!
No, she had never seen him. Young as she was when her mama died, she remembered how the tears would come into her eyes, when she spoke of him, and of the noble generosity of his character, which she had said was to be trusted above all earthly things; and Ada trusted it. Her cousin Jarndyce had written to her a few months ago, – 'a plain, honest letter,' Ada said – proposing the arrangement we were now to enter on, and telling her that, 'in time it might heal some of the wounds made by the miserable Chancery suit.' She had replied, gratefully accepting his proposal. Richard had received a similar letter, and had made a similar response. He had seen Mr. Jarndyce once, but only once, five years ago, at Winchester school. He had told Ada, when they were leaning on the screen before the fire where I found them, that he recollected him as 'a bluff, rosy fellow.' This was the utmost description Ada could give me.
It set me thinking so, that when Ada was asleep, I still remained before the fire, wondering and wondering about Bleak House, and wondering and wondering that yesterday morning should seem so long ago. I don't know where my thoughts had wandered, when they were recalled by a tap at the door.
I opened it softly, and found Miss Jellyby shivering there, with a broken candle in a broken candlestick in one hand, and an egg-cup in the other.
'Good night!' she said, very sulkily.
'Good night!' said I.
'May I come in?' she shortly and unexpectedly asked me in the same sulky way.
'Certainly,' said I. 'Don't wake Miss Clare.'
She would not sit down, but stood by the fire, dipping her inky middle finger in the egg-cup, which contained vinegar, and smearing it over the ink stains on her face; frowning the whole time, and looking very gloomy.
'I wish Africa was dead!' she said, on a sudden.
I was going to remonstrate.
'I do!' she said. 'Don't talk to me, Miss Summerson. I hate it and detest it. It's a beast!'
I told her she was tired, and I was sorry. I put my hand upon her head, and touched her forehead, and said it was hot now, but would be cool to-morrow. She still stood, pouting and frowning at me; but presently put down her egg-cup, and turned softly towards the bed where Ada lay.
'She is very pretty!' she said, with the same knitted brow, and in the same uncivil manner.
I assented with a smile.
'An orphan. Ain't she?'
'Yes.'
'But knows a quantity, I suppose? Can dance, and play music, and sing? She can talk French, I suppose, and do geography, and globes, and needlework, and everything?'
'No doubt,' said I.
'I can't,' she returned. 'I can't do anything hardly, except write. I 'm always writing for Ma. I wonder you two were not ashamed of yourselves to come in this afternoon, and see me able to do nothing else. It was like your ill-nature. Yet you think yourselves very fine, I dare say!'
I could see that the poor girl was near crying, and I resumed my chair without speaking, and looked at her (I hope) as mildly as I felt towards her.
'It's disgraceful,' she said. 'You know it is. The whole house is disgraceful. The children are disgraceful, I'm disgraceful. Pa's miserable, and no wonder! Priscilla drinks – she's always drinking. It's a great shame and a great story of you, if you say you didn't smell her to-day. It was as bad as a public-house, waiting at dinner; you know it was!'
'My dear, I don't know it,' said I.
'You do,' she said, very shortly. 'You shan't say you don't. You do!'
'O, my dear!' said I, 'if you won't let me speak—'
'You're speaking now. You know you are. Don't tell stories, Miss Summerson.'
'My dear,' said I, 'as long as you won't hear me out—'
'I don't want to hear you out.'
'O yes, I think you do,' said I, 'because that would be so very unreasonable. I did not know what you tell me, because the servant did not come near me at dinner; but I don't doubt what you tell me, and I am sorry to hear it.'
'You needn't make a merit of that,' said she.
'No, my dear,' said I. 'That would be very foolish.'
She was still standing by the bed, and now stooped down (but still with the same discontented face) and kissed Ada. That done, she came softly back, and stood by the side of my chair. Her bosom was heaving in a distressful manner that I greatly pitied; but I thought it better not to speak.
'I wish I was dead!' she broke out. 'I wish we were all dead. It would be a great deal better for us.'
In a moment afterwards, she knelt on the ground at my side, hid her face in my dress, passionately begged my pardon, and wept. I comforted her, and would have raised her, but she cried, No, no; she wanted to stay there!
'You used to teach girls,' she said. 'If you could only have taught me, I could have learnt from you! I am so very miserable, and I like you so much!'
I could not persuade her to sit by me, or to do anything but move a ragged stool to where she was kneeling, and take that, and still hold my dress in the same manner. By degrees, the poor tired girl fell asleep; and then I contrived to raise her head so that it should rest on my lap, and to cover us both with shawls. The fire went out, and all night long she slumbered thus before the ashy grate. At first I was painfully awake, and vainly tried to lose myself, with my eyes closed, among the scenes of the day. At length, by slow degrees, they became indistinct and mingled. I began to lose the identity of the sleeper resting on me. Now it was Ada; now, one of my old Reading friends from whom I could not believe I had so recently parted. Now, it was the little mad woman worn out with curtseying and smiling; now, some one in authority at
