And as he sat looking at the white face, he became aware of what might be a little tinge of colour—the faintest possible—upon the lips. He knew it must be a fancy, or at best an accident without significance—for he had heard of such a thing! Still, even if his eyes were deceiving him, he must shrink from hiding away such death out of sight! The merest counterfeit of life was too sacred for burial! Just such might the little daughter of Jairus have looked when the Lord took her by the hand ere she arose!
Thus feeling, and thus seeming to see on the lips of the girl a doubtful tinge of the light of life, it was no wonder that Peter could not entertain the thought of her immediate burial. They must at least wait some sign, some unmistakable proof even, of change begun!
Instead, therefore, of going into the yard to set in motion the needful preparations for the harvest at hand, he sat on with the dead: he could not leave her until his wife should come to take his place and keep her company! He brought a bible from the next room, sat down again, and waited beside her. In doubtful, timid, tremulous hope, not worthy of the name of hope—a mere sense of a scarcely possible possibility, he waited what he would not consent to believe he waited for. He would not deceive himself; he would give his wife no hint, but wait to see how she saw! He would put to her no leading question even, but watch for any start or touch of surprise she might betray!
By and by Marion appeared, gazed a moment on the dead, looked pitifully in her husband’s face, and went out again.
“She sees naething!” said Peter to himself. “I s’ awa’ to my wark!—Still I winna hae her laid aside afore I’m a wheen surer o’ what she is—leevin sowl or deid clod!”
With a sad sense of vanished self-delusion, he rose and went out. As he passed through the kitchen, his wife followed him to the door. “Ye’ll see and sen’ a message to the vricht (carpenter) the day?” she whispered.
“I’m no likly to forget!” he answered; “but there’s nae hurry, seein there’s no life concernt!”
“Na, nane; the mair’s the pity!” she answered; and Peter knew, with a glad relief, that his wife was coming to herself from the terrible blow.
She sent the cowboy to the Cormacks’ cottage, to tell Eppie to come to her.
The old woman came, heard what details there were to the sad story, shook her head mournfully, and found nothing to say; but together they set about preparing the body for burial. That done, the mind of Mrs. Blatherwick was at ease, and she sat expecting the visit of the carpenter. But the carpenter did not come.