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Updated: June 15, 2025
My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door. Who is it? Mrs. Rouncewell. What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly? "Trouble, my Lady. Sad trouble. Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word with you?"
This propensity gave Mrs. Rouncewell great uneasiness. She felt it with a mother's anguish to be a move in the Wat Tyler direction, well knowing that Sir Leicester had that general impression of an aptitude for any art to which smoke and a tall chimney might be considered essential. "Mrs. Rouncewell," said Sir Leicester, "I can never consent to argue, as you know, with any one on any subject.
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?"
Tulkinghorn, be so good as to ring. Thank you. Request," says Sir Leicester to Mercury, not immediately remembering the business term, "request the iron gentleman to walk this way." Mercury departs in search of the iron gentleman, finds, and produces him. Sir Leicester receives that ferruginous person graciously. "I hope you are well, Mr. Rouncewell. Be seated.
Weather affects Mrs. Rouncewell little. The house is there in all weathers, and the house, as she expresses it, "is what she looks at." She can open it on occasion and be busy and fluttered, but it is shut up now and lies on the breadth of Mrs. Rouncewell's iron-bound bosom in a majestic sleep. It is the next difficult thing to an impossibility to imagine Chesney Wold without Mrs.
Sir Leicester begs to observe that wholly alters the case. He might have been sure that my Lady had the best grounds and reasons in support of her view. He entirely agrees with my Lady. The young woman had better go. "As Sir Leicester observed, Mr. Rouncewell, on the last occasion when we were fatigued by this business," Lady Dedlock languidly proceeds, "we cannot make conditions with you.
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.
Rouncewell is not in the library, but she repairs to the library. Sir Leicester is there, and she wishes to speak to him first. "Sir Leicester, I am desirous but you are engaged." Oh, dear no! Not at all. Only Mr. Tulkinghorn. Always at hand. Haunting every place. No relief or security from him for a moment. "I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. Will you allow me to retire?"
My anything; pet secretary messenger I don't know what." "You like to have her about you, as you would like to have a flower, or a bird, or a picture, or a poodle no, not a poodle, though or anything else that was equally pretty?" says Volumnia, sympathizing. "Yes, how charming now! And how well that delightful old soul Mrs. Rouncewell is looking.
But he knows there is no such hope as that and lays his head down without looking for an answer. Very familiar to him, as he said himself some hours ago, George Rouncewell lifts him into easier positions through the long remainder of the blank wintry night, and equally familiar with his unexpressed wish, extinguishes the light and undraws the curtains at the first late break of day.
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