He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face.  He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of himself.  His voice was rich and mellow and he had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind of any word he said that his words really had come to sound as if there were something in them.  But now he can only whisper, and what he whispers sounds like what it is—­mere jumble and jargon.

His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside.  It is the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it.  After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes signs for a pencil.  So inexpressively that they cannot at first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants and brings in a slate.

After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand that is not his, “Chesney Wold?”

No, she tells him; he is in London.  He was taken ill in the library this morning.  Right thankful she is that she happened to come to London and is able to attend upon him.

“It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.  You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester.  All the gentlemen say so.”  This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.

After making a survey of the room and looking with particular attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, “My Lady.”

“My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and don’t know of your illness yet.”

He points again, in great agitation, at the two words.  They all try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation.  On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate once more and writes “My Lady.  For God’s sake, where?” And makes an imploring moan.

It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady Dedlock’s letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise.  She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal.  Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen and lies moaning.  He passes into a kind of relapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant’s arm.  The doctors know that he is best with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.

The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to write he cannot remember.  His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction at this pass are pitiable to behold.  It seems as if he must go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom.  He has written the letter B, and there stopped.  Of a sudden, in the height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it.  The old housekeeper suggests Bucket.  Thank heaven!  That’s his meaning.