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the mirrors accustomed to reflect them when they were a portion
of herself； have a desolate and vacant air。 Dark and cold as the
wintry day is； it is darker and colder in these deserted chambers
than in many a hut； that will barely exclude the weather； and
though the servants heap fires in the grates； and set the couches
and the chairs within the warm glass screens that let their ruddy
light shoot through to the furthest corners； there is a heavy cloud
upon the rooms which no light will dispel。
The old housekeeper and her son remain until the preparations
are complete； and then she returns upstairs。 Volumnia has taken
Mrs Rouncewell’s place in the meantime： though pearl necklaces
and rouge pots however calculated to embellish Bath； are but
indifferent comforts to the invalid under present circumstances。
Volumnia； not being supposed to know （and indeed not knowing）
what is the matter； has found it a ticklish task to offer appropriate
observations； and consequently has supplied their place with
distracting smoothings of the bed linen； elaborate locomotion on
tiptoe； vigilant peeping at her kinsman’s eyes； and one
exasperating whisper to herself of “He is asleep。” In disproof of
which superfluous remark； Sir Leicester has indignantly written
on the slate； “I am not。”
Yielding； therefore； the chair at the bedside to the quaint old
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housekeeper； Volumnia sits at a table a little removed；
sympathetically sighing。 Sir Leicester watches the sleet and snow；
and listens for the returning steps that he expects。 In the ears of
his old servant； looking as if she had stepped out of an old picture…
frame to attend a summoned Dedlock to another world； the silence
is fraught with echoes of her own words； “Who will tell him！”
He has been under his valet’s hands this morning； to be made
presentable； and is as well got up as the circumstances will allow。
He is propped with pillows； his grey hair is brushed in its usual
manner； his linen is arranged to a nicety； and he is wrapped in a
responsible dressing gown。 His eyeglass and his watch are ready
to his hand。 It is necessary—less to his own dignity now perhaps；
than for her sake—that he should be seen as little disturbed； and
as much himself； as may be。 Women will talk； and Volumnia；
though a Dedlock； is no exceptional case。 He keeps her here； there
is little doubt； to prevent her talking somewhere else。 He is very ill：
but he makes his present stand against distress of mind and body；
most courageously。
The fair Volumnia being one of those sprightly girls who cannot
long continue silent without imminent peril of seizure by the
dragon Boredom； soon indicates the approach of that monster
with a series of undisguisable yawns。 Finding it impossible to
suppress those yawns by any other process than conversation； she
compliments Mrs Rouncewell on her son； declaring that he
positively is one of the finest figures she ever saw； and as soldierly
a looking person she should think； as what’s his name； her
favourite Life Guardsman—the man she dotes on—the dearest of
creatures—who was killed at Waterloo。
Sir Leicester hears this tribute with so much surprise； and
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Bleak House 1086
stares about him in such a confused way； that Mrs Rouncewell
feels it necessary to explain。
“Miss Dedlock don’t speak of my eldest son； Sir Leicester； but
my youngest。 I have found him。 He has come home。”
Sir Leicester breaks silence with a harsh cry。 “George？ Your
son George come home； Mrs Rouncewell？”
The old housekeeper wipes her eyes。 “Thank God。 Yes； Sir
Leicester。”
Does this discovery of some one lost； this return of some one so
long gone； come upon him as a strong confirmation of his hopes？
Does he think； “Shall I not； with the aid I have； recall her safely
after this； there being fewer hours in her case than there are years
in his？”
It is of no use entreating him； he is determined to speak now；
and he does。 In a thick crowd of sounds； but still intelligibly
enough to be understood。
“Why did you not tell me； Mrs Rouncewell？”
“It happened only yesterday； Sir Leicester； and I doubted your
being well enough to be talked to of such things。”
Besides； the giddy Volumnia now remembers with her little
scream that nobody was to have known of his being Mrs
Rouncewell’s son； and that she was not to have told。 But Mrs
Rouncewell protests； with warmth enough to swell the stomacher；
that of course she would have told Sir Leicester as soon as he got
better。
“Where is your son George； Mrs Rouncewell？” asks Sir
Leicester。
Mrs Rouncewell； not a little alarmed by his disregard of the
doctor’s injunctions； replies； in London。
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“Where in London？”
Mrs Rouncewell is constrained to admit that he is in the house。
“Bring him here to my room。 Bring him directly。”
The old lady can do nothing but go in search of him。 Sir
Leicester； with such power of movement as he has； arranges
himself a little； to receive him。 When he has done so； he looks out
again at the falling sleet and snow； and listens again for the
returning steps。 A quantity of straw has been tumbled down in the
street to deaden the noises there； and she might be driven to the
door perhaps without his hearing wheels。 He is lying thus；
apparently forgetful of his newer and minor surprise； when the
housekeeper returns； accompanied by her trooper son。 Mr George
approaches softly to the bedside； makes his bow； squares his chest；
and stands； with his face flushed； very heartily ashamed of himself。
“Good Heaven； and it is really George Rouncewell！” exclaims
Sir Leicester。 “Do you remember me； George？”
The trooper needs to look at him； and to separate this sound
from that sound； before he knows what he has said； but doing this；
and being a little helped by his mother； he replies：
“I must have a very bad memory； indeed； Sir Leicester； if I
failed to remember you。”
“When I look at you； George Rouncewell；” Sir Leicester
observes with difficulty； “I see something of a boy at Chesney
Wold—I remember well—very well。”
He looks at the trooper until tears come into his eyes； and then
he looks at the sleet and snow again。
“I ask your pardon； Sir Leicester；” says the trooper； “but would
you accept of my arms to raise you up。 You would lie easier； Sir
Leicester； if you would allow me to move y