Mrs. Rouncewell, not a little alarmed by his disregard of the doctor’s injunctions, replies, in London.
“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.