"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."