dreary. Themen open an inner door, and we enter a long corridor, comfortably warmedby 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 intoa second. Here a door is opened at last: I find myself in a spaciousroom, completely and tastefully furnished, having two beds in it, anda large fire burning in the grate. The change to this warm and cheerfulplace of shelter from the chilly and misty solitude of the moor isso luxuriously delightful that I am quite content, for the firstfew minutes, to stretch myself on a bed, in lazy enjoyment of my newposition; without caring to inquire into whose house we have intruded;without even wondering at the strange absence of master, mistress, ormember of the family to welcome our arrival under their hospitable roof.
After a while, the first sense of relief passes away. My dormantcuriosity revives. I begin to look about me.
The gardener-groom has disappeared. I discover my traveling companionat the further end of the room, evidently occupied in questioning theguide. A word from me brings him to my bedside. What discoveries has hemade? whose is the house in which we are sheltered; and how is it thatno member of the family appears to welcome us?
My friend relates his discoveries. The guide listens as attentively tothe second-hand narrative as if it were quite new to him.
The house that shelters us belongs to a gentleman of ancient Northernlineage, whose name is Dunross. He has lived in unbroken retirement onthe barren island for twenty years past, with no other companion than adaughter, who is his only child. He is generally believed to be one ofthe most learned men living. The inhabitants of Shetland know him farand wide, under a name in their dialect which means, being interpreted,"The Master of Books." The one occasion on which he and his daughterhave been known to leave their island retreat was at a past time whena terrible epidemic disease broke out among the villages in theneighborhood. Father and daughter labored day and night among their poorand afflicted neighbors, with a courage which no danger could shake,with a tender care which no fatigue could exhaust. The father hadescaped infection, and the violence of the epidemic was beginning towear itself out, when the daughter caught the disease. Her life had beenpreserved, but she never completely recovered her health. She is now anincurable sufferer from some mysterious nervous disorder whichnobody understands, and which has kept her a prisoner on the island,self-withdrawn from all human observation, for years past. Among thepoor inhabitants of the district, the father and daughter are worshipedas semi-divine beings. Their names come after the Sacred Name in theprayers which the parents teach to their children.
Such is the household (so far as the guide's story goes) on whoseprivacy we have intruded ourselves! The narrative has a certain interestof its own, no doubt, but it has one defect--it fails entirely toexplain the continued absence of Mr. Dunross. Is it possible that he isnot aware of our presence in the house? We apply the guide, and make afew 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 couldhardly have puzzled him more effectually. My friend tries him with asimpler form of words.
"Did you ask leave to bring us here when you found your way to thehouse?"
The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of feelingperfectly scandalized by the question.
"Do you think," he asks, sternly, "'that I am fool enough to disturb theMaster over his books for such a little matter as bringing you and yourfriend 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 caseinto our stupid heads at last! "That's just what I mean!" he says, withan air of infinite relief.
The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted on us bythis extraordinary discovery. A little, lean, old gentleman, shroudedin a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters the room. The guide stepsforward, and respectfully closes the door for him. We are evidently inthe presence of The Master of Books!
CHAPTER XVIII. THE DARKENED ROOM.
THE little gentleman advances to my bedside. His silky white hair flowsover his shoulders; he looks at us with faded blue eyes; he bows with asad and subdued courtesy, and says, in the simplest manner, "I bid youwelcome, gentlemen, to my house."
We are not content with merely thanking him; we naturally attempt toapologize for our intrusion. Our host defeats the attempt at the outsetby making an apology on his own behalf.
"I happened to send for my servant a minute since," he proceeds, "andI only then heard that you were here. It is a custom of the housethat nobody interrupts me over my books. Be pleased, sir, to acceptmy excuses," he adds, addressing himself to me, "for not having soonerplaced myself and my household at your disposal. You have met, as I amsorry to hear, with an accident. Will you permit me to send for medicalhelp? I ask the question a little abruptly, fearing that time may be ofimportance, and knowing that our nearest doctor lives at some distancefrom this house."
He speaks with a certain quaintly precise choice of words--more like aman dictating a letter than holding a conversation. The subdued sadnessof his manner is reflected in the subdued sadness of his face. He andsorrow have apparently been old acquaintances, and have become used toeach other for years past. The shadow of some past grief rests quietlyand impenetrably over the whole man; I see it in his faded blue eyes, onhis 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 oftreating 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 itis only within the last few moments that my traveling companion andI have become aware of the liberty which our guide has taken inintroducing us, on his own sole responsibility, to the house. Mr.Dunross looks at me, as if he, like the guide, failed entirely tounderstand what my scruples and excuses mean. After a while the truthdawns on him. A faint smile flickers over his face; he lays his hand ina gentle, fatherly way on my shoulder.
"We are so used here to our Shetland hospitality," he says, "that weare slow to understand the hesitation which a stranger feels in takingadvantage of it. Your guide is in no respect to blame, gentlemen. Everyhouse in these islands which is large enough to contain a spare room hasits Guests' Chamber, always kept ready for occupation. When you travelmy way, you come here as a matter of course; you stay here as long asyou like; and, when you go away, I only do my duty as a good Shetlanderin accompanying you on the first stage of your journey to bid yougodspeed. The customs of centuries past elsewhere are modern customshere. I beg of you to give my servant all the directions which arenecessary to your comfort, just as freely as you could give them in yourown house."
He turns aside to ring a hand-bell on the table as he speaks; andnotices in the guide's face plain signs that the man has taken offenseat my disparaging allusion to him.
"Strangers cannot be expected to understand our ways, Andrew," saysThe Master of Books. "But you and I understand one another--and that isenough."
The guide's rough face reddens with pleasure. If a crowned king on athrone had spoken condescendingly to him, he could hardly have lookedmore proud of the honor conferred than he looks now. He makes a clumsyattempt to take the Master's hand and kiss it. Mr. Dunross gently repelsthe attempt, and gives him a little pat on the head. The guide looks atme and my friend as if he had been honored with the highest distinctionthat an earthly being can receive. The Master's hand had touched himkindly!
In a moment more, the gardener-groom appears at the door to answer thebell.
"You will move the medicine-chest into this room, Peter," says Mr.Dunross. "And you will wait on this gentleman, who is confined to hisbed by an accident, exactly as you would wait on me if I were ill. Ifwe both happen to ring for
you together, you will answer his bell beforeyou answer mine. The usual changes of linen are, of course, ready in thewardrobe there? Very good. Go now, and tell the cook to prepare a littledinner; and get a bottle of the old Madeira out of the cellar. You willleast, in this room. These two gentlemen will be best pleased to dinetogether. Return here in five minutes' time, in case you are wanted; andshow my guest, Peter, that I am right in believing you to be a goodnurse as well as a good servant."
The silent and surly Peter brightens under the expression of theMaster's confidence in him, as the guide brightened under the influenceof the Master's caressing touch. The two men leave the room together.
We take advantage of the momentary silence that follows to introduceourselves by name to our host, and to inform him of the circumstancesunder which we happen to be