At that time, and for a good many weeks after that time, Richard was constant in his visits. Besides coming every Saturday or Sunday, and remaining with us until Monday morning, he sometimes rode out on horseback unexpectedly, and passed the evening with us, and rode back again early next day. He was as vivacious as ever, and told us he was very industrious; but I was not easy in my mind about him. It appeared to me that his industry was all misdirected, I could not find that it led to anything, but the formation of delusive hopes in connexion with the suit already the pernicious cause of so much sorrow and ruin. He had got at the core of that mystery now, he told us; and nothing could be plainer than that the will under which he and Ada were to take, I don't know how many thousands of pounds, must be finally established, if there were any sense or justice in the Court of Chancery—but O what a great if that sounded in my ears—and that this happy conclusion could not be much longer delayed. He proved this to himself by all the weary arguments on that side he had read, and every one of them sunk him deeper in the infatuation. He had even begun to haunt the Court. He told us how he saw Miss Flite there daily; how they talked together, and he did her little kindnesses; and how, while he laughed at her, he pitied her from his heart. But he never thought—never, my poor, dear, sanguine Richard, capable of so much happiness then, and with such better things before him!—what a fatal link was riveting between his fresh youth and her faded age; between his free hopes and her caged birds, and her hungry garret, and her wandering mind.
Ada loved him too well, to mistrust him much in anything he said or did; and my guardian, though he frequently complained of the east wind and read more than usual in the Growlery, preserved a strict silence on the subject. So, I thought, one day when I went to London to meet Caddy Jellyby, at her solicitation, I would ask Richard to be in waiting for me at the coach-office, that we might have a little talk together. I found him there when I arrived, and we walked away arm in arm.
“Well, Richard,” said I, as soon as I could begin to be grave with him, “are you beginning to feel more settled now?”
“O yes, my dear!” returned Richard, “I am all right enough.”
“But settled?” said I.
“How do you mean, settled?” returned Richard, with his gay laugh.
“Settled in the law,” said I.
“O aye,” replied Richard, “I'm all right enough.”
“You said that before, my dear Richard.”
“And you don't think it's an answer, eh? Well! Perhaps it's not. Settled? You mean, do I feel as if I were settling down?”
“Yes.”
“Why, no, I can't say I am settling down,” said Richard, strongly emphasising ‘down,’ as if that expressed the difficulty; “because one can't settle down while this business remains in such an unsettled state. When I say this business, of course I mean the—forbidden subject.”
“Do you think it will ever be in a settled state?” said I.
“Not the least doubt of it,” answered Richard.
We walked a little way without speaking; and presently Richard addressed me in his frankest and most feeling manner, thus:
“My dear Esther, I understand you, and I wish to Heaven I were a
