“You find me,” says Sir Leicester, whose eyes are much attracted towards him, “far from well, George Rouncewell.”

“I am very sorry both to hear it and to see it, Sir Leicester.”

“I am sure you are.  No.  In addition to my older malady, I have had a sudden and bad attack.  Something that deadens,” making an endeavour to pass one hand down one side, “and confuses,” touching his lips.

George, with a look of assent and sympathy, makes another bow.  The different times when they were both young men (the trooper much the younger of the two) and looked at one another down at Chesney Wold arise before them both and soften both.

Sir Leicester, evidently with a great determination to say, in his own manner, something that is on his mind before relapsing into silence, tries to raise himself among his pillows a little more.  George, observant of the action, takes him in his arms again and places him as he desires to be.  “Thank you, George.  You are another self to me.  You have often carried my spare gun at Chesney Wold, George.  You are familiar to me in these strange circumstances, very familiar.”  He has put Sir Leicester’s sounder arm over his shoulder in lifting him up, and Sir Leicester is slow in drawing it away again as he says these words.

“I was about to add,” he presently goes on, “I was about to add, respecting this attack, that it was unfortunately simultaneous with a slight misunderstanding between my Lady and myself.  I do not mean that there was any difference between us (for there has been none), but that there was a misunderstanding of certain circumstances important only to ourselves, which deprives me, for a little while, of my Lady’s society.  She has found it necessary to make a journey—­I trust will shortly return.  Volumnia, do I make myself intelligible?  The words are not quite under my command in the manner of pronouncing them.”

Volumnia understands him perfectly, and in truth he delivers himself with far greater plainness than could have been supposed possible a minute ago.  The effort by which he does so is written in the anxious and labouring expression of his face.  Nothing but the strength of his purpose enables him to make it.

“Therefore, Volumnia, I desire to say in your presence—­and in the presence of my old retainer and friend, Mrs. Rouncewell, whose truth and fidelity no one can question, and in the presence of her son George, who comes back like a familiar recollection of my youth in the home of my ancestors at Chesney Wold—­in case I should relapse, in case I should not recover, in case I should lose both my speech and the power of writing, though I hope for better things—­”

The old housekeeper weeping silently; Volumnia in the greatest agitation, with the freshest bloom on her cheeks; the trooper with his arms folded and his head a little bent, respectfully attentive.

“Therefore I desire to say, and to call you all to witness—­ beginning, Volumnia, with yourself, most solemnly—­that I am on unaltered terms with Lady Dedlock.  That I assert no cause whatever of complaint against her.  That I have ever had the strongest affection for her, and that I retain it undiminished.  Say this to herself, and to every one.  If you ever say less than this, you will be guilty of deliberate falsehood to me.”