At the first streaks of the winter dawn the door opened, and Ella, simply dressed for the day, entered the room. Sylvester rose with a frown and advanced to meet her.
“I must take my turn,” she whispered.
“There is no necessity,” he returned.
“I have passed through great trouble,” she said, looking at him with eyes pathetically bright through want of sleep, “and it would be mere human kindness to let me sit here for a little alone. And you must take some rest.”
“I thank you for your consideration,” he replied ironically, ignoring her appeal, “but I am not in need of rest.” He held the door open for her to pass out, but she stood her ground.
“You are hard, but you claim to be just. Uncle Matthew sent for me. Aunt Agatha has told you. I have some right to be here. Besides, it would hurt him to know that you refused to let me be with him.”
“If you put it that way, I must admit your claim,” he said coldly. “If you will come into the passage, I will give you some directions in view of contingencies.”
She assented, and they went out together. At the end of the passage a housemaid passed wraithlike on her way to the kitchen. The crack of the stairs beneath her tread sounded sharp in the unbroken silence of the house.
“Thank you, I will not forget,” said Ella, when he had ended his instructions. She disappeared into the sick chamber; and Sylvester, going to his own room, threw himself in his clothes upon the bed, and wrapped in a rug fell, through force of habit and through fatigue, into a heavy sleep.
A couple of hours afterwards he was awakened. Mr. Usher urgently requested to speak with him. Sylvester rose, shook the sleep from his eyes, and faced the grim contingencies of another day. He was prepared for this interview with the father, had steeled himself against whining entreaties and appeals to old comradeship. But to see him was an act of common decency, however unpleasant and however fruitless. He sponged his face with ice-cold water and went downstairs to the dining-room. Mr. Usher was sitting on the edge of an armchair, warming his plump hands before the fire. He rose as Sylvester entered, and, putting his hands behind his back, regarded him with eyes more than ever expressionless and red-rimmed.