"I thought it would be my work to lay out the new garden. I would like
to have had the thought of poor lame Hamish joined with the change; but
it does not really matter. You will not forget me; but, Shenac,
afterwards you must tell Allister about the summer-seat."
"Afterwards!" Ah, well, there would be time enough for many a thing
afterwards--for the tears and bitter cries which Shenac could only just
keep back, for the sickness of the heart that would not be driven away.
Now she could only promise quietly that afterwards Allister should be
told; and then gather closer about him the plaid, which her brother's
hand had scarcely strength to hold.
"You are growing weary, Hamish," she said.
"Yes," said Hamish; and they rose to go. But first they would go into
the old house for a moment, for the sake of old times.
"For, with all your cares, and all my painful days and nights, we were
very happy here, Shenac," said Hamish, as the wide, low door swung back
and they stepped down into the room. Oh, how unspeakably dreary it
looked to Shenac--dreary, though so familiar! There was a bedstead in
the room yet, and some old chairs; and the heavy bunk, which was hardly
fit for the new house. There was the mother's wheel, too; and on the
walls hung bunches of dried herbs and bags of seeds, and an old familiar
garment or two. There was dust on the floor, and ashes and blackened
brands were lying in the wide fireplace, and the sunshine streaming in
on all through the open door. Shenac shivered as she entered, but
Hamish looked round with a smile, and with eyes that were taking
farewell of them all. Even in her bitter pain she thought of him first.
She made him sit down on the bunk, and gathered the plaid about him
again, for the air was chill.
It all came back: the many, many times she had seen him sitting there,
in health and in sickness, in sorrow and in joy; all their old life, all
the days that could never, never come again. Kneeling down beside him,
she laid her head upon his breast, and just this once--the first time
and the last in his presence--gave way to her grief.
"O Hamish! Hamish, bhodach! Must it be? Must it be?" He did not
speak. She did not move till she felt tears that were not her own
falling on her face. Then she rose, and putting her arms round him, she
made him lean on her, all the while softly soothing him with hand and
voice.
"I am grieved for you, my Shenac," said he. "We two have been nearer to
each other than the rest. You have not loved me less because I am
little and lame, but rather more for the trouble I have been to you; and
I know something will be gone from your life when I am not here."
"Oh, what will be left?" said Shenac.
"Shenac, my darling, I know something that you do not know, and I see
such a beautiful life before you. You are strong. There is much for
you to do of the very highest work--God's work; and then at the end we
shall meet all the happier because of the heart-break now."
But beyond the shadow that was drawing nearer, Shenac's eyes saw
nothing, and she thought indeed that her heart was breaking--dying with
the sharpness of the pain.
"It won't be long, at the very longest; and after just the first, there
are many happy days waiting you."
Shenac withdrew herself from her brother, she trembled so, and slipping
down beside him, she laid her face on his bosom again. Then followed
words which I shall not write down--words of prayer, which touched the
sore place in Shenac's heart as they fell, but which came back
afterwards many a time with a comforting and healing power.
All through the long summer afternoon Hamish slumbered and woke and
slumbered again, while his sister sat beside him, heart-sick with the
dread, which was indeed no longer dread, but sorrowful certainty.
"It is coming nearer," she said to herself, over and over again--"it is
coming nearer." But she strove to quiet herself, that her face might be
calm for his waking eyes to rest upon.
Allister and his wife came in as usual to sit a little while with him,
when the day's work was done; and then Shenac slipped away, to be alone
a little while with her grief. An hour passed, and then another, and a
third was drawing to a close, and she did not return.
"She must have fallen asleep. She is weary with the long day," said
Hamish. "And you are weary too, Allister and Shenac. Go to bed. I
shall not need anything till my Shenac comes."
Shenac Dhu went out and opened the door of her sister's room. Little
Flora was sleeping sweetly, but there was no Shenac. Very softly she
went here and there, looking and listening in vain. The late moon, just
rising, cast long shadows on the dewy grass as she opened the door and
looked out. The pleasant sounds of a summer night fell on her ear, but
no human voice mingled with the music. All at once there came into her
mind the remembrance of the brother and sister as they sat in the
afternoon at the old house-end, and, hardly knowing why, she went
through the yard and down the garden-path. All was still without, but
from within the house there surely came a sound.
Yes; it was the sound of weeping--not loud and bitter, but as when a
"weaned child" has quieted itself, and sobs and sighs through its
slumbers.
"Alone with God and her sorrow!"
Shenac Dhu dared not enter; nor shall we. When a stricken soul lies in
the dust before God, no eye should gaze, no lip tell the story. Who
would dare to speak of the mystery of suffering and blessing through
which a soul passes when God first smites, then heals? What written
words could reveal his secret of peace spoken to such a one?
That night all the grief of Shenac's sore heart was spread out before
the Lord. All the rebellion of the will that clung still to an earthly
idol rose up against him; and in his loving-kindness and in the
multitude of his tender mercies he had compassion upon her. That night
she "did eat angels' food," on the strength of which she went for many a
day.
Shenac Dhu still listened and waited, meaning to steal away unseen; but
when the door opened, and the moonlight fell on her sister's
tear-stained face, so pale and calm, now that the struggle was over, she
forgot all else, and clung to her, weeping. Shenac did not weep; but,
weary and spent with the long struggle, she trembled like a leaf, and,
guiding each other through the dim light, they went home.
Shenac Dhu was herself again when she crossed the threshold, and when
her cousin would have turned towards the door of her brother's room, she
gently but firmly drew her past it.
"No; it is Allister's turn and mine to-night," she said; and Shenac had
no strength to resist, but suffered herself to be laid down by little
Flora's side without a word.
She rose next morning refreshed; and after this all was changed. She
gave Hamish up after that night; or, rather, she had given up her own
will, and waited that God's will might be done in him and in her. It
was not that she suffered, and had strength to hide her suffering from
her brother's eye. She did not suffer as she had done before. She did
not love her brother less, but she no longer grudged him to his Lord and
hers. It was not that for him the change would be most blessed, nor
that for her the waiting would not be long. It was because God willed
that her brother should go hence; and therefore she willed it too.
And what blessed days those were that followed! Surely never traveller
went down the dark valley cheered by warmer love or tenderer care.
There was no cloud, no shadow of a cloud, between the brother and sister
after that night. Though Shenac never said it, Hamish knew that after
that night she gave him up and was at peace. It was a peaceful time to
all the household, and to the friends who came now and then to see them;
but there was more than peace in the hallowed hours to the brother and
sister. It was a foretaste of "the rest that remaineth." To one, that
rest was near. Between it and the other lay life--it might be long--a
life of care and labour and trial; but to her the rest "remaineth" all
the same.
He did not suffer much--just enough to make her loving care constant and
very sweet to him--just enough to make her not grudge too much, for his
sake, the passing of the days. Oh, how peacefully they glided on! The
valley was steep, but it never was dark. Not a shadow, to the very
last, came to dim the brightness of those days; and in remembrance the
brightness lingers still.