CHAPTER VI
THE COUNCIL
The house, as they plunged down the last hill at midnight, showed orange squares above and below,—the windows in both stories, lighted as for some rare festivity. The sight was unfamiliar and daunting. So, when the door opened, was the strange new dignity with which Ella admitted him and answered his unspoken question.
“Asleep; restin’ quiet. Cap’n What’s-name here’ll take Quinn’s hoss home. Come get your supper, and then straight to bed.”
He obeyed, as in a dream. In whispers, by the yellow lamplight, she forced him to eat and drink; then led the way upstairs. As they tiptoed past, the door of the sick-room stood ajar. Miles peeped in. A shawl curtained the bed from lamp and firelight, but even in deep shadow the sleeper’s face wore a sinister mask of alteration.
“To bed now,” whispered the servant. “I’m settin’ up, Miles.” She touched his shoulder gently. “Come. To-morrow’ll do.”
He lay down, fully dressed, and ready for misfortune. Dozing through the dark hours, he roused, from time to time, at an imaginary summons. Weariness conquered, however, and when he woke Ella stood watching, from beside a window flooded with sunshine.
“He wants to see ye, after breakfast,” she said quietly. “Doctor’s come and gone again. I wouldn’t wake ye, poor dear. No noos. No change, either way.”
Again, using a forgotten title of childhood, she compelled him to sit at table: “You must keep up, little Cap’n. Can’t have two sick men.” That new, quiet authority of hers remained a strange comfort, even as he mounted the stairs.