Chapter Nineteen.

And having closed the once beaming eyes and straightened the worn limbs for the grave, Shenac’s work at home was done. Through the days of waiting that followed, she sat in the great chair with folded hands. Many came and went, and lingered night and day in the house of death, as is the custom of this part of the country, now happily passing away; and through all the coming and going Shenac sat still. Sometimes she roused herself to answer the friends who came with well-meant sympathy; but oftener she sat silent, scarcely seeming to hear their words. She was “resting,” she said to Dan, who watched her through those days with wistful and anxious eyes.

Yes, she was resting from the days and nights of watching, and from the labours and cares and anxieties of the years that had gone before. All her weariness seemed to fall upon her at once. Even when death enters the door, the cares and duties of such a household cannot be altogether laid aside. There was much to do with so many comers and goers; but there were helpful hands enough, and she took no part in the necessary work, but rested.

She took little heed of the preparations going on about her—different in detail, but in all the sad essentials the same, in hut and hall, at home and abroad—the preparations for burying our dead out of our sight. During the first day, Allister and his wife said, thankfully, to each other, “How calm she is!” The next day they said it a little anxiously. Then they watched for the reaction, feeling sure it must come, and longing that it should be over.

“It will be now,” said Shenac Dhu as they brought in the coffin; and she waited at her sister’s door to hear her cry out, that she might weep with her. But it was not then; nor afterwards, when the long, long procession moved away from the house so slowly and solemnly; nor when they stood around the open grave in the kirkyard. When the first clod fell on the coffin—oh, heart-breaking sound!—Dan made one blind step towards Shenac, and would have fallen but for Angus Dhu. Little Flora cried out wildly, and her sister held her fast. She did not shriek, nor swoon, nor break into weeping, as did Shenac Dhu; but “her face would never be whiter,” said they who saw it, and many a kindly and anxious eye followed her as the long line of mourners slowly turned on their homeward way again.

After the first day or two, Shenac tried faithfully to fall back into her old household ways—or, rather, she tried to settle into some helpful place in her brother’s household. The wheel was put to use again, and, indeed, there was need, for all things had lagged a little during the summer; and Shenac did her day’s work, and more, as she used to do. She strove to be interested in the discussions of ways and means which Allister’s wife was so fond of holding, but she did not always strive successfully. It was a weariness to her; everything was a weariness at times. It was very wrong, she said, and very strange, for she really did wish to be useful and happy in her brother’s household. She thought little of going away now; she had not the heart for it. The thought of beginning some new, untried work made her weary, and the thought of going away among strangers made her afraid.

When it was suggested that she and little Flora should pay a long-promised visit to their uncle, at whose house Hamish had passed so many weeks, and that they should go soon, that they might have the advantage of the fine autumn weather, she shrank from the proposal in dismay.

“Not yet, Allister,” she pleaded; “I shall like it by-and-by, but not yet.”

So nothing of the kind was urged again. They made a mistake, however. A change of some kind was greatly needed by her at this time. Her brother’s long illness and death had been a greater strain on her health and spirits than any one dreamed. She was not ill, but she was in that state when if she had been left to herself, or had had nothing to do, she might have become ill, or have grown to fancy herself so, which is a worse matter often, and worse to cure. As it was, with her good constitution and naturally cheerful spirit, she would have recovered herself in time, even if something had not happened to rouse and interest her.

But something did happen. Shenac went one fair October afternoon over the fields to the beech woods to gather nuts with Flora and the young lads, and before they returned a visitor had arrived. They fell in with Dan on their way home, and as they came in sight of the house, chatting together eagerly, there was something like the old light in Shenac’s eye and the old colour in her cheek. If she had known whose eyes were watching her from the parlour window, she would hardly have lingered in the garden while the children spread their nuts on the old house-floor to dry. She did not know till she went into the house—into the room. She did not know till he was holding her hands in his, that Mr Stewart had come.

“Shenac, good, dear child, is it well with you?”

She had heard the words before. All the scene came back—the remembrance of the summer days, her dying brother and his friend—all that had happened since then. She strove to answer him—to say it was well, that she was glad to see him, and why had he not come before? But she could not for her tears. She struggled hard; but, long restrained, they came in a flood now. When she felt that to struggle was vain, she would have fled; but she was held fast, and the tears were suffered to have way for a while. When she could find voice, she said,—

“I am not grieving too much; you must not think that. Ask Allister. I did not mean to cry, but when I saw you it all came back.”

Again her face was hidden, for her tears would not be stayed; but only one hand was given to the work. Mr Stewart held the other firmly, while he spoke just such words as she needed to hear of her brother and herself—of all they had been to each other, of all that his memory would be to her in the life that might lie before her. Then he spoke of the endless life which was before them, which they should pass together when this life—short at the very longest—should be over. She listened, and became quiet; and by-and-by, in answer to his questions, she found herself telling him of her brother’s last days and words, and then, with a little burst of joyful tears, of Dan, and all that she hoped those days had brought to him.

Never since the old times, when she used “to empty her heart out” to Hamish, had she found such comfort in being listened to. When she came to the tea-table, after brushing away her tears, she seemed just as usual, Shenac Dhu thought; and yet not just the same, she found, when she looked again. She gave a little nod at her husband, who smiled back at her, and then she said softly to Mr Stewart,—

“You have done her good already.”

Of course Mr Stewart, being a minister, whose office it is to do good to people, was very glad to have done good to Shenac. Perhaps he thought it best to let well alone, for he did not speak to her again during tea-time, nor while she was gathering up the tea-things—“just as she used to do in the old house long ago,” he said to himself. She washed them, too, there before them all; for it was Shenac Dhu’s new china—Christie More’s beautiful wedding present—that had been spread in honour of the occasion, and it was not to be thought of that they should be carried into the kitchen to be washed like common dishes. She was quiet, as usual, all the evening and at the time of worship, when Angus Dhu and his wife and Evan and some other neighbours, having heard of the minister’s arrival, came in. She was just as usual, they all said, only she did not sing. If she had raised her voice in her brother’s favourite psalm,—

“I to the hills will lift mine eyes,”

she must have cried again; and she was afraid of the tears which it seemed impossible to stop when once they found a way.

Mr Stewart fully intended for that night to “let well alone.” Shenac had welcomed him warmly as the dearest friend of her dead brother, and he would be content for the present with that. He had something to say to her, and a question or two to ask; but he must wait a while, he thought. She must not be disturbed yet.

But when the neighbours were gone, and he found himself alone with her for a moment, he felt sorely tempted to change his mind. As he watched her sitting there with folded hands, so quiet and grave and sweet, so unconscious of his presence, as it seemed to him, a fear came over him—a fear as to the answer his question might receive. It was not at all a pleasant state of mind. He endured it only while he walked up and down the room two or three times; then pausing beside her, he said softly,—

“Is this my Shenac?”

She looked up with only wonder in her eyes, he saw, with a little shock of pain; but he went on,—

“Hamish gave his sister to me, to keep and cherish always. Did he never tell you?”

“I do not understand you, Mr Stewart,” said Shenac; but the sudden drooping of the eye and the rush of colour over her face seemed to say something else.

“To be my wife,” he said, sitting down beside her and drawing her gently towards him. She did not resist, but she said hastily,—

“Oh, no; I am not fit for that.”

“But if I am content, and can make you content?”

“But that is not enough. I am not fit. No; it is not humility. I know myself, and I am not fit.”

It is just possible that Mr Stewart wished that he had for that night “let well alone.”

“But I must have it out with her, now that I have begun,” he said to himself as he rose and went to the door, at which a footstep had paused. Whoever it was, no one came in; and, shutting the door, he came and sat down again.

In the meantime, Shenac had been calling up a vision of the new minister’s wife, the one who had succeeded old Mr Farquharson, and, in view of the prettily-dressed, gentle-mannered, accomplished little lady that presented herself to her mind, she had repeated to herself, more emphatically,—

“No, I am not fit.”

So when Mr Stewart came back she was sitting with closely-folded hands, looking straight before her, very grave indeed. They were both silent for a moment; then Mr Stewart said,—

“Now, Shenac, tell me why.”

Shenac started. “You must know quite well.”

“But indeed I do not. Tell me, Shenac.”

It was not easy to do so. In the unspeakable embarrassment that came over her, she actually thought of flight.

“I am not educated,” she murmured. “I have never been anywhere but at home. I can only do common work. I am not fit.”

“Hamish thought you fit,” said Mr Stewart softly.

“Ah, yes; Hamish, bhodach!”

Her voice fell with such a loving cadence. All the pain and embarrassment passed out of her face, giving place to a soft and tender light, as she turned towards him.

“I was perfect in his eyes; but—you know better, Mr Stewart.”

“The eyes of the dying are very clear to see things as they are,” said Mr Stewart. “And as we sat at the end of the house that day, I think Hamish was more glad for me than for you. He was willing to give you to me, even for your sake; but he knew what a treasure he was giving to his friend, if I could win you for my own.”

Her tears were falling softly. She did not try to speak.

“Will you tell me in what respect you think you are not fit?”

She did not know how to answer. She was deficient in so many ways—in every way, indeed, it seemed to her. She did not know where to begin; but she must speak, and quickly too, that she might get away before she quite broke down. Putting great force upon herself, she turned to him, and said,—

“I can do so few things; I know so little. I could keep your house, and—and care for you in that way; but I have seen so little. I am only an ignorant country girl—”

“Yes; I thought that myself once,” said Mr Stewart.

“You must have thought it many times,” said Shenac with a pang. It was not pleasant to hear it from his lips, let it be ever so true. But it took the quiver from her voice, and gave her courage to go on, “And all you care for is so different from anything I have ever seen or known, I should be quite left out of your real life. You do not need me for that, I know; but I don’t think I could bear it—to be so near you and so little to you.”

She rose to go. She was trembling very much, and could hardly utter the words.

“You are very kind, and I thank you; but—you know I am not fit. An ignorant country girl—you have said so yourself.”

“Shall I tell you when I thought so, Shenac? Do you mind the night that I brought little Flora home, crying with the cold? It was the first time I saw your face. Do you mind how you comforted Flora, and put the little lads to shame for having left her? And then you thanked me, and asked me to sit down. And do you mind how you made pancakes for supper, and never let one of them burn, though you were listening all the time to Hamish and me? I remember everything that happened that night, Shenac—how you put away the things, and made a new band for the mother’s wheel, and took up the lost loops in little Flora’s stocking. Then you helped the little lads with their tables, and kept Dan in order, listening all the time to your brother and me; and, best of all, you bade me be sure and come again. Have you forgotten, Shenac?”

“It was for the sake of Hamish,” said Shenac, dropping her head; but she raised it again quickly. “That does not make any difference.”

“Listen. That night, as I went over the fields to Angus Dhu’s, I said to myself that if ever I grew strong and well again, if ever I should live to have a kirk and a manse of my own—was I too bold, Shenac?—I said to myself you should help me to do my work in them as I ought.”

Shenac shook her head.

“It was not a wise thought. You little know how unfit I was then, how unfit I am now.”

“Say that you do not care for me, Shenac,” said Mr Stewart gravely.

“No, I cannot say that; it would not be true. I mean, that has nothing to do with my being fit.”

Mr Stewart thought it had a great deal to do with it, but he did not say so.

“You said you would be left out of my real life. What do you mean, Shenac? Do you know what my life’s work is to be? It is, with God’s help, to be of use to souls. Don’t you care for that, Shenac? Do you think a year or two of life in the world—common life—could be to you what these months by your brother’s death-bed have been, as a preparation for real life-work—yours and mine? Do you think that any school could do for you what all these years of forgetting yourself and caring for others have done—all your loving patience with your afflicted mother, all your care of your sister and the little lads, all your forbearance with Dan, all your late joy in him? If you cared for me, Shenac, you would not say you are not fit.”

It was very pleasant to listen to all this. There was some truth in it, too, Shenac could not but acknowledge. He was very much in earnest, at any rate, and sincere in every word, except perhaps the last He wanted to hear her say again that she eared for him; but she did not fall into the trap, whether she saw it or not.

“I know I care for your work,” she said, “and you are right—in one way. I think all our cares and troubles have done me good, have made me see things differently. But I could not help you much, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t say that, Shenac; you could give me what I need most—sympathy; you could help my weakness with your strength and courage of spirit. Think what you were to Hamish. You would be tenfold more to me. Oh, I need you so much, Shenac!”

“Hamish was different. You would have a right to expect more than Hamish.”

But she grew brave again, and, looking into his face, said,—

“I do sympathise in your work, Mr Stewart, and I would like it to be mine in a humble way; but there are so many things that I cannot speak about. Think of your own sisters. How different I must be from them! Allister and Shenac saw your sister Jessie when they were in M—, and they said she was so accomplished—such a perfect little lady—and yet so good and sweet and gentle. No, Mr Stewart, I could never bear to have people say your wife was not worthy of you, even though I might know it to be true.”

“I was thinking how our bonnie little Jessie might sit at your feet to learn everything—almost everything—that it is worth a woman’s while to know.”

“You are laughing at me now,” said she, troubled.

“No, I am not; and, Shenac, you must not go. I have a question to ask. I should have begun with it. Will you answer me simply and truly, as Hamish would have wished his sister to answer his friend?”

“I will try,” said she, looking up with a peculiar expression that always came at the name of Hamish. He bent down and whispered it.

“I have always thought you wise and good, more than any one, and—”

There was another pause.

“It is a pleasant thing to hear that you have always thought me wise and good; but you have not answered my question, Shenac.”

“Yes, I do care for you, Mr Stewart. It would make me happy to share your work; but I am not fit for it—at least, not yet.”

In his joy and simplicity he thought all the rest would be easy; and, to tell the truth, so did Allister and his wife, who ought to have known our Shenac better. When Shenac Dhu kissed her, and whispered something about Christmas, and how they could ever bear to lose her so soon, Shenac spoke. She was going away before Christmas, and they could spare her very well; but she was not going with Mr Stewart for two years at the very least Allister had told her there was something laid up for her against the time she should need it, and it would be far better that she should use it to furnish her mind than to furnish her house; and she was going to school.

“To school!” repeated Mrs Allister in dismay. “Does Mr Stewart know?”

“No; you must tell him, Shenac—you and Allister. I am not fit to be his wife. You will not have people saying—saying things. You must see it, Shenac. I know so little; and it makes me quite wretched to think of going among strangers, I am so shy and awkward. I am not fit to be a minister’s wife,” she added with a little laugh that was half a sob. Shenac Dhu laughed too, and clapped her hands.

“A minister’s wife, no less! Our Shenac!” And then she added gravely, “I think you are right, Shenac. I know you are good enough and dear enough to be Mr Stewart’s wife, though he were the prince of that name, if there be such a person. But there are little things that folk can only learn by seeing them in others, and I think you are quite right; but you will not get Mr Stewart to think so.”

“If it is right he will come to think so; and you must be on my side, Shenac—you and Allister, too.”

Shenac Dhu promised, but in her heart she thought that her sister would not be suffered to have her own way in this matter. She was mistaken, however. Shenac was firm without the use of many words. She cared for him, but she was not fit to be his wife yet. This was the burden of her argument, gone over and over in all possible ways; and the first part was so sweet to Mr Stewart that he was fain to take patience and let her have her own way in the rest.

In Shenac’s country, happily, it is not considered a strange thing that a young girl should wish to pursue her education even after she is twenty, so she had no discomfort to encounter on the score of being out of her ’teens. She lived first with her cousin, Christie More, who no longer occupied rooms behind her husband’s shop, but a handsome house at a reasonable distance towards the west end of the town. Afterwards she lived in the school-building, because it gave her more time and a better chance for study. She spent all the money that Allister had put aside for her; but she was moderately successful in her studies, and considered it well spent.

And when the time for the furnishing of the western manse came, there was money forthcoming for that too; for Angus Dhu had put aside the interest of the sum sent to him by Allister for her use from the very first, meaning it always to furnish her house. It is possible that it was another house he had been thinking of then; but he gave it to her now in a way that greatly increased its value in her eyes, kissing her and blessing her before them all.

All these years Shenac’s work has been constant and varied; her duties have been of the humblest and of the highest, from the cutting and contriving, the making and mending of little garments, to the guiding of wandering feet and the comforting of sorrowful souls. In the manse there have been the usual Saturday anxieties and Monday despondencies, needing cheerful sympathy and sometimes patient forbearance. In the parish there have been times of trouble and times of rejoicing; times when the heavens have seemed brass above, and the earth beneath, iron; and times when the church has been “like a well-watered garden,” having its trees “filled with the fruits of righteousness.” And in the manse and in the parish Shenac has never, in her husband’s estimation, failed to fill well her allotted place.

The firm health and cheerful temper which helped her through the days before Allister came home, have helped her to bear well the burdens which other years have brought to her. The firm will, the earnest purpose, the patience, the energy, the forgetfulness of self, which made her a stronghold of hope to her mother and the rest in the old times, have made her a tower of strength in her home and among the people. And each passing year has deepened her experience and brightened her hope, has given her clearer views of God’s truth and a clearer sense of God’s love; and thus she has grown yearly more fit to be a helper in the great work beside which all other work seems trifling—the work in which God has seen fit to make his people co-workers with himself—the work of gathering in souls, to the everlasting glory of his name.

And so, when her work on earth is over, there shall a glad “Well done!” await her in heaven.

The End.