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 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.