Book: THE TWO DESTINIES

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After a little private consultation, the two men decide to cross
their hands, and thus make a seat for me between them. My arms
rest on their shoulders; and so they carry me off. My friend
trudges behind them, with the saddle and the cloak. The ponies
caper and kick, in unrestrained enjoyment of their freedom; and
sometimes follow, sometimes precede us, as the humor of the
moment inclines them. I am, fortunately for my bearers, a light
weight. After twice resting, they stop altogether, and set me
down on the driest place they can find. I look eagerly through
the mist for some signs of a dwelling-house--and I see nothing
but a little shelving beach, and a sheet of dark water beyond.
Where are we?

The gardener-groom vanishes, and appears again on the water,
looming large in a boat. I am laid down in the bottom of the
boat, with my saddle-pillow; and we shove off, leaving the ponies
to the desolate freedom of the moor. They will pick up plenty to
eat (the guide says); and when night comes on they will find
their own way to shelter in a village hard by. The last I see of
the hardy little creatures they are taking a drink of water, side
by side, and biting each other sportively in higher spirits than
ever!

Slowly we float over the dark water--not a river, as I had at
first supposed, but a lake--until we reach the shores of a little
island; a flat, lonely, barren patch of ground. I am carried
along a rough pathway made of great flat stones, until we reach
the firmer earth, and discover a human dwelling-place at last. It
is a long, low house of one story high; forming (as well as I can
see) three sides of a square. The door stands hospitably open.
The hall within is bare and cold and dreary. The men open an
inner door, and we enter a long corridor, comfortably warmed by a
peat fire. On one wall I notice the closed oaken doors of rooms;
on the other, rows on rows of well-filled book-shelves meet my
eye. Advancing to the end of the first passage, we turn at right
angles into a second. Here a door is opened at last: I find
myself in a spacious room, completely and tastefully furnished,
having two beds in it, and a large fire burning in the grate. The
change to this warm and cheerful place of shelter from the chilly
and misty solitude of the moor is so luxuriously delightful that
I am quite content, for the first few minutes, to stretch myself
on a bed, in lazy enjoyment of my new position; without caring to
inquire into whose house we have intruded; without even wondering
at the strange absence of master, mistress, or member of the
family to welcome our arrival under their hospitable roof.

After a while, the first sense of relief passes away. My dormant
curiosity revives. I begin to look about me.

The gardener-groom has disappeared. I discover my traveling
companion at the further end of the room, evidently occupied in
questioning the guide. A word from me brings him to my bedside.
What discoveries has he made? whose is the house in which we are
sheltered; and how is it that no member of the family appears to
welcome us?

My friend relates his discoveries. The guide listens as
attentively to the second-hand narrative as if it were quite new
to him.

The house that shelters us belongs to a gentleman of ancient
Northern lineage, whose name is Dunross. He has lived in unbroken
retirement on the barren island for twenty years past, with no
other companion than a daughter, who is his only child. He is
generally believed to be one of the most learned men living. The
inhabitants of Shetland know him far and wide, under a name in
their dialect which means, being interpreted, "The Master of
Books." The one occasion on which he and his daughter have been
known to leave their island retreat was at a past time when a
terrible epidemic disease broke out among the villages in the
neighborhood. Father and daughter labored day and night among
their poor and afflicted neighbors, with a courage which no
danger could shake, with a tender care which no fatigue could
exhaust. The father had escaped infection, and the violence of
the epidemic was beginning to wear itself out, when the daughter
caught the disease. Her life had been preserved, but she never
completely recovered her health. She is now an incurable sufferer
from some mysterious nervous disorder which nobody understands,
and which has kept her a prisoner on the island, self-withdrawn
from all human observation, for years past. Among the poor
inhabitants of the district, the father and daughter are
worshiped as semi-divine beings. Their names come after the
Sacred Name in the prayers which the parents teach to their
children.

Such is the household (so far as the guide's story goes) on whose
privacy we have intruded ourselves! The narrative has a certain
interest of its own, no doubt, but it has one defect--it fails
entirely to explain the continued absence of Mr. Dunross. Is it
possible that he is not aware of our presence in the house? We
apply the guide, and make a few further inquiries of him.

"Are we here," I ask, "by permission of Mr. Dunross?"

The guide stares. If I had spoken to him in Greek or Hebrew, I
could hardly have puzzled him more effectually. My friend tries
him with a simpler form of words.

"Did you ask leave to bring us here when you found your way to
the house?"

The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of
feeling perfectly scandalized by the question.

"Do you think," he asks, sternly, "'that I am fool enough to
disturb the Master over his books for such a little matter as
bringing you and your friend into this house?"

"Do you mean that you have brought us here without first asking
leave?" I exclaim in amazement.

The guide's face brightens; he has beaten the true state of the
case into our stupid heads at last! "That's just what I mean!" he
says, with an air of infinite relief.

The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted on us
by this extraordinary discovery. A little, lean, old gentleman,
shrouded in a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters the room.
The guide steps forward, and respectfully closes the door for
him. We are evidently in the presence of The Master of Books!

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE DARKENED ROOM.

THE little gentleman advances to my bedside. His silky white hair
flows over his shoulders; he looks at us with faded blue eyes; he
bows with a sad and subdued courtesy, and says, in the simplest
manner, "I bid you welcome, gentlemen, to my house."

We are not content with merely thanking him; we naturally attempt
to apologize for our intrusion. Our host defeats the attempt at
the outset by making an apology on his own behalf.

"I happened to send for my servant a minute since," he proceeds,
"and I only then heard that you were here. It is a custom of the
house that nobody interrupts me over my books. Be pleased, sir,
to accept my excuses," he adds, addressing himself to me, "for
not having sooner placed myself and my household at your
disposal. You have met, as I am sorry to hear, with an accident.
Will you permit me to send for medical help? I ask the question a
little abruptly, fearing that time may be of importance, and
knowing that our nearest doctor lives at some distance from this
house."

He speaks with a certain quaintly precise choice of words--more
like a man dictating a letter than holding a conversation. The
subdued sadness of his manner is reflected in the subdued sadness
of his face. He and sorrow have apparently been old
acquaintances, and have become used to each other for years past.
The shadow of some past grief rests quietly and impenetrably over
the whole man; I see it in his faded blue eyes, on his broad
forehead, on his delicate lips, on his pale shriveled cheeks. My
uneasy sense of committing an intrusion on him steadily
increases, in spite of his courteous welcome. I explain to him
that I am capable of treating my own case, having been myself in
practice as a medical man; and this said, I revert to my
interrupted excuses. I assure him that it is only within the last
few moments that my traveling companion and I have become aware
of the liberty which our guide has taken in introducing us, on
his own sole responsibility, to the house. Mr. Dunross looks at
me, as if he, like the guide, failed entirely to understand what
my scruples and excuses mean. After a while the truth dawns on
him. A faint smile flickers over his face; he lays his hand in a
gentle, fatherly way on my shoulder.

"We are so used here to our Shetland hospitality," he says, "that
we are slow to understand the hesitation which a stranger feels
in taking advantage of it. Your guide is in no respect to blame,
gentlemen. Every house in these islands which is large enough to
contain a spare room has its Guests' Chamber, always kept ready
for occupation. When you travel my way, you come here as a matter
of course; you stay here as long as you like; and, when you go
away, I only do my duty as a good Shetlander in accompanying you
on the first stage of your journey to bid you godspeed. The
customs of centuries past elsewhere are modern customs here. I
beg of you to give my servant all the directions which are
necessary to your comfort, just as freely as you could give them
in your own house."

He turns aside to ring a hand-bell on the table as he speaks; and
notices in the guide's face plain signs that the man has taken
offense at my disparaging allusion to him.

"Strangers cannot be expected to understand our ways, Andrew,"
says The Master of Books. "But you and I understand one
another--and that is enough."

The guide's rough face reddens with pleasure. If a crowned king
on a throne had spoken condescendingly to him, he could hardly
have looked more proud of the honor conferred than he looks now.
He makes a clumsy attempt to take the Master's hand and kiss it.
Mr. Dunross gently repels the attempt, and gives him a little pat
on the head. The guide looks at me and my friend as if he had
been honored with the highest distinction that an earthly being
can receive. The Master's hand had touched him kindly!

In a moment more, the gardener-groom appears at the door to
answer the bell.

"You will move the medicine-chest into this room, Peter," says
Mr. Dunross. "And you will wait on this gentleman, who is
confined to his bed by an accident, exactly as you would wait on
me if I were ill. If we both happen to ring for you together, you
will answer his bell before you answer mine. The usual changes of
linen are, of course, ready in the wardrobe there? Very good. Go
now, and tell the cook to prepare a little dinner; and get a
bottle of the old Madeira
out of the cellar. You will spread the table, for to-day at
least, in this room. These two gentlemen will be best pleased to
dine together. Return here in five minutes' time, in case you are
wanted; and show my guest, Peter, that I am right in believing
you to be a good nurse as well as a good servant."

The silent and surly Peter brightens under the expression of the
Master's confidence in him, as the guide brightened under the
influence of the Master s caressing touch. The two men leave the
room together.

We take advantage of the momentary silence that follows to
introduce ourselves by name to our host, and to inform him of the
circumstances under which we happen to be visiting Shetland. He
listens in his subdued, courteous way; but he makes no inquiries
about our relatives; he shows no interest in the arrival of the
Government yacht and the Commissioner for Northern Lights. All
sympathy with the doings of the outer world, all curiosity about
persons of social position and notoriety, is evidently at an end
in Mr. Dunross. For twenty years the little round of his duties
and his occupations has been enough for him. Life has lost its
priceless value to this man; and when Death comes to him he will
receive the king of terrors as he might receive the last of his
guests.

"Is there anything else I can do," he says, speaking more to
himself than to us, "before I go back to my books?"

Something else occurs to him, even as he puts the question. He
addresses my companion, with his faint, sad smile. "This will be
a dull life, I am afraid, sir, for you. If you happen to be fond
of angling, I can offer you some little amusement in that way.
The lake is well stocked with fish; and I have a boy employed in
the garden, who will be glad to attend on you in the boat."

My friend happens to be fond of fishing, and gladly accepts the
invitation. The Master says his parting words to me before he
goes back to his books.

"You may safely trust my man Peter to wait on you, Mr. Germaine,
while you are so unfortunate as to be confined to this room. He
has the advantage (in cases of illness) of being a very silent,
undemonstrative person. At the same time he is careful and
considerate, in his own reserved way. As to what I may term the
lighter duties at your bedside such as reading to you, writing
your letters for you while your right hand is still disabled,
regulating the temperature in the room, and so on--though I
cannot speak positively, I think it likely that these little
services may be rendered to you by another person whom I have not
mentioned yet. We shall see what happens in a few hours' time. In
the meanwhile, sir, I ask permission to leave you to your rest."

With those words, he walks out of the room as quietly as he
walked into it, and leaves his two guests to meditate gratefully
on Shetland hospitality. We both wonder what those last
mysterious words of our host mean; and we exchange more or less
ingenious guesses on the subject of that nameless "other person"
who may possibly attend on me--until the arrival of dinner turns
our thoughts into a new course.

The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection and
admirably served. I am too weary to eat much: a glass of the fine
old Madeira revives me. We arrange our future plans while we are
engaged over the meal. Our return to the yacht in Lerwick harbor
is expected on the next day at the latest. As things are, I can
only leave my companion to go back to the vessel, and relieve the
minds of our friends of any needless alarm about me. On the day
after, I engage to send on board a written report of the state of
my health, by a messenger who can bring my portmanteau back with
him.

These arrangements decided on, my friend goes away (at my own
request) to try his skill as an angler in the lake. Assisted by
the silent Peter and the well-stocked medicine-chest, I apply the
necessary dressings to my wound, wrap myself in the comfortable
morning-gown which is always kept ready in the Guests' Chamber,
and lie down again on the bed to try the restorative virtues of
sleep.

Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window, and
asks in fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains. In
fewer words still--for I am feeling drowsy already--I answer No.
I dislike shutting out the cheering light of day. To my morbid
fancy, at that moment, it looks like resigning myself
deliberately to the horrors of a long illness. The hand-bell is
on my bedside table; and I can always ring for Peter if the light
keeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Peter mutely nods
his head, and goes out.

For some minutes I lie in lazy contemplation of the companionable
fire. Meanwhile the dressings on my wound and the embrocation on
my sprained wrist steadily subdue the pains which I have felt so
far. Little by little, the bright fire seems to be fading. Little
by little, sleep steals on me, and all my troubles are forgotten.

I wake, after what seems to have been a long repose--I wake,
feeling the bewilderment which we all experience on opening our
eyes for the first time in a bed and a room that are new to us.
Gradually collecting my thoughts, I find my perplexity
considerably increased by a trifling but curious circumstance.
The curtains which I had forbidden Peter to touch are
drawn--closely drawn, so as to plunge the whole room in
obscurity. And, more surprising still, a high screen with folding
sides stands before the fire, and confines the light which it
might otherwise give exclusively to the ceiling. I am literally
enveloped in shadows. Has night come?

In lazy wonder, I turn my head on the pillow, and look on the
other side of my bed.

Dark as it is, I discover instantly that I am not alone.

A shadowy figure stands by my bedside. The dim outline of the
dress tells me that it is the figure of a woman. Straining my
eyes, I fancy I can discern a wavy black object covering her head
and shoulders which looks like a large veil. Her face is turned
toward me, but no distinguishing feature in it is visible. She
stands like a statue, with her hands crossed in front of her,
faintly relieved against the dark substance of her dress. This I
can see--and this is all.

There is a moment of silence. The shadowy being finds its voice,
and speaks first.

"I hope you feel better, sir, after your rest?"

The voice is low, with a certain faint sweetness or tone which
falls soothingly on my ear. The accent is unmistakably the accent
of a refined and cultivated person. After making my
acknowledgments to the unknown and half-seen lady, I venture to
ask the inevitable question, "To whom have I the honor of
speaking?"

The lady answers, "I am Miss Dunross; and I hope, if you have no
objection to it, to help Peter in nursing you."

This, then, is the "other person" dimly alluded to by our host! I
think directly of the heroic conduct of Miss Dunross among her
poor and afflicted neighbors; and I do not forget the melancholy
result of her devotion to others which has left her an incurable
invalid. My anxiety to see this lady more plainly increases a
hundred-fold. I beg her to add to my grateful sense of her
kindness by telling me why the room is so dark "Surely," I say,
"it cannot be night already?"

"You have not been asleep," she answers, "for more than two
hours. The mist has disappeared, and the sun is shining."

I take up the bell, standing on the table at my side.

"May I ring for Peter, Miss Dunross?"

"To open the curtains, Mr. Germaine?"

"Yes--with your permission. I own I should like to see the
sunlight."

"I will send Peter to you immediately."

The shadowy figure of my new nurse glides away. In another
moment, unless I say something to stop her, the woman whom I am
so eager to see will have left the room.

"Pray don't go!" I say. "I cannot think of troubling you to take
a trifling message for me. The servant will come in, if I only
ring the bell."

She pauses--more shadowy than ever--halfway between the bed and
the door, and answers a little sadly:

"Peter will not let in the daylight while I am in the room. He
closed the curtains by my order."

The reply puzzles me. Why should Peter keep the room dark while
Miss Dunro ss is in it? Are her eyes weak? No; if her eyes were
weak, they would be protected by a shade. Dark as it is, I can
see that she does not wear a shade. Why has the room been
darkened--if not for me? I cannot venture on asking the
question--I can only make my excuses in due form.

"Invalids only think of themselves," I say. "I supposed that you
had kindly darkened the room on my account."

She glides back to my bedside before she speaks again. When she
does answer, it is in these startling words:

"You were mistaken, Mr. Germaine. Your room has been
darkened--not on your account, but on _mine_."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CATS.

MISS DUNROSS had so completely perplexed me, that I was at a loss
what to say next.

To ask her plainly why it was necessary to keep the room in
darkness while she remained in it, might prove (for all I knew to
the contrary) to be an act of positive rudeness. To venture on
any general expression of sympathy with her, knowing absolutely
nothing of the circumstances, might place us both in an
embarrassing position at the outset of our acquaintance. The one
thing I could do was to beg that the present arrangement of the
room might not be disturbed, and to leave her to decide as to
whether she should admit me to her confidence or exclude me from
it, at her own sole discretion.

She perfectly understood what was going on in my mind. Taking a
chair at the foot of the bed, she told me simply and unreservedly
the sad secret of the darkened room.

"If you wish to see much of me, Mr. Germaine," she began, "you
must accustom yourself to the world of shadows in which it is my
lot to live. Some time since, a dreadful illness raged among the
people in our part of this island; and I was so unfortunate as to
catch the infection. When I recovered--no! 'Recovery' is not the
right word to use--let me say, when I escaped death, I found
myself afflicted by a nervous malady which has defied medical
help from that time to this. I am suffering (as the doctors
explain it to me) from a morbidly sensitive condition of the
nerves near the surface to the action of light. If I were to draw
the curtains, and look out of that window, I should feel the
acutest pain all over my face. If I covered my face, and drew the
curtains with my bare hands, I should feel the same pain in my
hands. You can just see, perhaps, that I have a very large and
very thick veil on my head. I let it fall over my face and neck
and hands, when I have occasion to pass along the corridors or to
enter my father's study--and I find it protection enough. Don't
be too ready to deplore my sad condition, sir! I have got so used
to living in the dark that I can see quite well enough for all
the purposes of _my_ poor existence. I can read and write in
these shadows--I can see you, and be of use to you in many little
ways, if you will let me. There is really nothing to be
distressed about. My life will not be a long one--I know and feel
that. But I hope to be spared long enough to be my father's
companion through the closing years of his life. Beyond that, I
have no prospect. In the meanwhile, I have my pleasures; and I
mean to add to my scanty little stack the pleasure of attending
on you. You are quite an event in my life. I look forward to
reading to you and writing for you, as some girls look forward to
a new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange of me
to tell you so openly just what I have in my mind? I can't help
it! I say what I think to my father and to our poor neighbors
hereabouts--and I can't alter my ways at a moment's notice. I own
it when I like people; and I own it when I don't. I have been
looking at you while you were asleep; and I have read your face
as I might read a book. There are signs of sorrow on your
forehead and your lips which it is strange to see in so young a
face as yours. I am afraid I shall trouble you with many
questions about yourself when we become better acquainted with
each other. Let me begin with a question, in my capacity as
nurse. Are your pillows comfortable? I can see they want shaking
up. Shall I send for Peter to raise you? I am unhappily not
strong enough to be able to help you in that way. No? You are
able to raise yourself? Wait a little. There! Now lie back--and
tell me if I know how to establish the right sort of sympathy
between a tumbled pillow and a weary head."

She had so indescribably touched and interested me, stranger as I
was, that the sudden cessation of her faint, sweet tones affected
me almost with a sense of pain. In trying (clumsily enough) to
help her with the pillows, I accidentally touched her hand. It
felt so cold and so thin, that even the momentary contact with it
startled me. I tried vainly to see her face, now that it was more
within reach of my range of view. The merciless darkness kept it
as complete a mystery as ever. Had my curiosity escaped her
notice? Nothing escaped her notice. Her next words told me
plainly that I had been discovered.

"You have been trying to see me," she said. "Has my hand warned
you not to try again? I felt that it startled you when you
touched it just now."

Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived; such
fearless candor demanded as a right a similar frankness on my
side. I owned the truth, and left it to her indulgence to forgive
me.

She returned slowly to her chair at the foot of the bed.

"If we are to be friends," she said, "we must begin by
understanding one another. Don't associate any romantic ideas of
invisible beauty with _me_, Mr. Germaine. I had but one beauty to
boast of before I fell ill--my complexion--and that has gone
forever. There is nothing to see in me now but the poor
reflection of my former self; the ruin of what was once a woman.
I don't say this to distress you--I say it to reconcile you to
the darkness as a perpetual obstacle, so far as your eyes are
concerned, between you and me. Make the best instead of the worst
of your strange position here. It offers you a new sensation to
amuse you while you are ill. You have a nurse who is an
impersonal creature--a shadow among shadows; a voice to speak to
you, and a hand to help you, and nothing more. Enough of myself!"
she exclaimed, rising and changing her tone. "What can I do to
amuse you?" She considered a little. "I have some odd tastes,"
she resumed; "and I think I may entertain you if I make you
acquainted with one of them. Are you like most other men, Mr.
Germaine? Do you hate cats?"

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