The Two Destinies Page 27

visiting Shetland. He listens in hissubdued, courteous way; but he makes no inquiries about our relatives;he shows no interest in the arrival of the Government yacht and theCommissioner for Northern Lights. All sympathy with the doings ofthe outer world, all curiosity about persons of social position andnotoriety, is evidently at an end in Mr. Dunross. For twenty years thelittle 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 tohim he will receive the king of terrors as he might receive the last ofhis guests.

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

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

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

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

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

  The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection and admirablyserved. I am too weary to eat much: a glass of the fine old Madeirarevives me. We arrange our future plans while we are engaged over themeal. Our return to the yacht in Lerwick harbor is expected on the nextday at the latest. As things are, I can only leave my companion to goback to the vessel, and relieve the minds of our friends of any needlessalarm about me. On the day after, I engage to send on board a writtenreport of the state of my health, by a messenger who can bring myportmanteau 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 Peterand the well-stocked medicine-chest, I apply the necessary dressings tomy wound, wrap myself in the comfortable morning-gown which is alwayskept ready in the Guests' Chamber, and lie down again on the bed to trythe restorative virtues of sleep.

  Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window, and asksin fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains. In fewer wordsstill--for I am feeling drowsy already--I answer No. I dislike shuttingout the cheering light of day. To my morbid fancy, at that moment,it looks like resigning myself deliberately to the horrors of a longillness. The hand-bell is on my bedside table; and I can always ring forPeter if the light keeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Petermutely 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 sprainedwrist steadily subdue the pains which I have felt so far. Little bylittle, the bright fire seems to be fading. Little by little, sleepsteals on me, and all my troubles are forgotten.

  I wake, after what seems to have been a long repose--I wake, feeling thebewilderment which we all experience on opening our eyes for the firsttime in a bed and a room that are new to us. Gradually collecting mythoughts, I find my perplexity considerably increased by a trifling butcurious circumstance. The curtains which I had forbidden Peter to touchare drawn--closely drawn, so as to plunge the whole room in obscurity.And, more surprising still, a high screen with folding sides standsbefore the fire, and confines the light which it might otherwise giveexclusively to the ceiling. I am literally enveloped in shadows. Hasnight come?

  In lazy wonder, I turn my head on the pillow, and look on the other sideof 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 dresstells me that it is the figure of a woman. Straining my eyes, I fancyI can discern a wavy black object covering her head and shoulderswhich looks like a large veil. Her face is turned toward me, but nodistinguishing feature in it is visible. She stands like a statue, withher hands crossed in front of her, faintly relieved against the darksubstance of her dress. This I can see--and this is all.

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

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

  The voice is low, with a certain faint sweetness or tone which fallssoothingly on my ear. The accent is unmistakably the accent of a refinedand cultivated person. After making my acknowledgments to the unknownand half-seen lady, I venture to ask the inevitable question, "To whomhave I the honor of speaking?"

  The lady answers, "I am Miss Dunross; and I hope, if you have noobjection to it, to help Peter in nursing you."

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

  "You have not been asleep," she answers, "for more than two hours. Themist 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 seewill have left the room.

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

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

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

  The reply puzzles me. Why should Peter keep the room dark while MissDunross is in it? Are her eyes weak? No; if her eyes were weak, theywould be protected by a shade. Dark as it is, I can see that she doesnot wear a shade. Why has the room been darkened--if not for me? Icannot venture on asking the question--I can only make my excuses in dueform.

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

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

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

  CHAPTER XIX. THE CATS.

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

  To ask her plainly why it was necessary to keep the room in darknesswhile 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 expressionof sympathy with her, knowing absolutely
nothing of the circumstances,might place us both in an embarrassing position at the outset of ouracquaintance. The one thing I could do was to beg that the presentarrangement of the room might not be disturbed, and to leave her todecide as to whether she should admit me to her confidence or exclude mefrom it, at her own sole discretion.

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

  "If you wish to see much of me, Mr. Germaine," she began, "you mustaccustom 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 partof this island; and I was so unfortunate as to catch the infection. WhenI recovered--no! 'Recovery' is not the right word to use--let me say,when I escaped death, I found myself afflicted by a nervous