He drank the draught, however, making a wry face. Ella bent over to wipe his lips, but he motioned her away with characteristic independence.
“I can do that for myself. I can't do much, but I can do that. You don't know how she bullies me, Syl.”
“Uncle Matthew wouldn't have the nurse when she came to relieve me,” explained Ella.
“I want those I love best by me, as now, eh, Syl?” said the old man.
Sylvester did not answer, but stood by the bedside dumb, vainly seeking some formula of speech whereby to simulate emotion. Ella set the wine-glass on the table and smoothed the pillows and counterpane, then lingered by the sick man, looking down upon him with a puckering of the brow, as a woman will, counting over the little tale of duties specified by the forth-driven nurse, so as to make certain of no omission. But her presence there filled Sylvester with dull resentment.
“My father has something particular to say to me,” he said stiffly. “Do you mind?”
“I was on the point of going,” she replied, somewhat surprised at feeling hurt by his tone, for she had thought that the successive emotional shocks of the past four and twenty hours had killed all feeling within her for ever. Recovering herself, she bent over the old man, kissed him, and crossed to the door. Sylvester met her there and accompanied her into the passage and closed the door behind him.
“How much does my father know of Roderick Usher's affairs?”
She looked at him bravely enough.
“Nothing. I believe he guesses. I have told him he was summoned abroad suddenly.” She moved away.