“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

But one other day had intervened when, early in the morning as we were going to breakfast, Mr. Woodcourt came in haste with the astounding news that a terrible murder had been committed for which Mr. George had been apprehended and was in custody.  When he told us that a large reward was offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock for the murderer’s apprehension, I did not in my first consternation understand why; but a few more words explained to me that the murdered person was Sir Leicester’s lawyer, and immediately my mother’s dread of him rushed into my remembrance.

This unforeseen and violent removal of one whom she had long watched and distrusted and who had long watched and distrusted her, one for whom she could have had few intervals of kindness, always dreading in him a dangerous and secret enemy, appeared so awful that my first thoughts were of her.  How appalling to hear of such a death and be able to feel no pity!  How dreadful to remember, perhaps, that she had sometimes even wished the old man away who was so swiftly hurried out of life!

Such crowding reflections, increasing the distress and fear I always felt when the name was mentioned, made me so agitated that I could scarcely hold my place at the table.  I was quite unable to follow the conversation until I had had a little time to recover.  But when I came to myself and saw how shocked my guardian was and found that they were earnestly speaking of the suspected man and recalling every favourable impression we had formed of him out of the good we had known of him, my interest and my fears were so strongly aroused in his behalf that I was quite set up again.