On the Thursday morning the soutar came to inquire after his friends at Stanecross, and the gudewife gave him a message to Willie Wabster, the vricht, to see about the coffin.
But the soutar, catching sight of the farmer in the yard, went and had a talk with him; and the result was that he took no message to the carpenter; and when Peter went in to his dinner, he still said there was no hurry: why should she be so anxious to heap earth over the dead? For still he saw, or fancied he saw, the same possible colour on Isy’s cheek—like the faintest sunset-red, or that in the heart of the palest blush-rose, which is either glow or pallor as you choose to think it. So the first week of Isy’s death passed, and still she lay in state, ready for the grave, but unburied.
Not a few of the neighbours came to see her, and were admitted where she lay; and some of them warned Marion that, when the change came, it would come suddenly; but still Peter would not hear of her being buried “with that colour on her cheek!” And Marion had come to see, or to imagine with her husband that she saw the colour. So, each in turn, they kept watching her: who could tell but the Lord might be going to work a miracle for them, and was not in the meantime only trying them, to see how long their patience and hope would endure!
The report spread through the neighbourhood, and reached Tiltowie, where it speedily pervaded street and lane:—“The lass at Stanecross, she’s lyin deid, and luikin as alive as ever she was!” From street and lane the people went crowding to see the strange sight, and would have overrun the house, but had a reception by no means cordial: the farmer set men at every door, and would admit no one. Angry and ashamed, they all turned and went—except a few of the more inquisitive, who continued lurking about in the hope of hearing something to carry home and enlarge upon.
As to the minister, he insisted upon disbelieving the whole thing, and yet was made not a little uncomfortable by the rumour. Such a foe to superstition that in his mind he silently questioned the truth of all records of miracles, to whomsoever attributed, he was yet haunted by a fear which he dared not formulate. Of course, whatever might take place, it could be no miracle, but the mere natural effect of natural causes! none the less, however, did he dread what might happen: he feared Isy herself, and what she might disclose! For a time he did not dare again go near the place. The girl might be in a trance! she might revive suddenly, and call out his name! She might even reveal all! She had always been a strange girl! What if, indeed, she were even being now kept alive to tell the truth, and disgrace him before all the world! Horrible as was the thought, might it not be well, in view of the possibility of her revival, that he should be present to hear anything she might say, and take precaution against it? He resolved, therefore, to go to Stonecross, and make inquiry after her, heartily hoping to find her undoubtedly and irrecoverably dead.
In the meantime, Peter had been growing more and more expectant, and had nearly forgotten all about the coffin, when a fresh rumour came to the ears of William Webster, the coffin-maker, that the young woman at Stonecross was indeed and unmistakably gone; whereupon he, having lost patience over the uncertainty that had been crippling his operations, questioned no more what he had so long expected, set himself at once to his supposed task, and finished what he had already begun and indeed half ended. The same night that the minister was on his way to the farm, he passed Webster and his man carrying the coffin home through the darkness: he descried what it was, and his heart gave a throb of satisfaction. The men reaching Stonecross in the pitch-blackness of a gathering storm, they stupidly set up their burden on end by the first door, and went on to the other, where they made a vain effort to convey to the deaf Eppie a knowledge of what they had done. She making them no intelligible reply, there they left the coffin leaning up against the wall; and, eager to get home ere the storm broke upon them, set off at what speed was possible to them on the rough and dark road to Tiltowie, now in their turn meeting and passing the minister on his way.
By the time James arrived at Stonecross, it was too dark for him to see the ghastly sentinel standing at the nearer door. He walked into the parlour; and there met his father coming from the little chamber where his wife was seated.
“Isna this a most amazin thing, and houpfu’ as it’s amazing?” cried his father. “What can there be to come oot o’ ’t? Eh, but the w’ys o’ the Almichty are truly no to be mizzered by mortal line! The lass maun surely be intendit for marvellous things, to be dealt wi’ efter sic an extra-ordnar fashion! Nicht efter nicht has the tane or the tither o’ hiz twa been sittin here aside her, lattin the hairst tak its chance, and i’ the daytime lea’in ’maist a’ to the men, me sleepin and they at their wark; and here the bonny cratur lyin, as quaiet as gien she had never seen tribble, for thirteen days, and no change past upon her, no more than on the three holy bairns i’ the fiery furnace! I’m jist in a trimle to think what’s to come oot o’ ’t a’! God only kens! we can but sit still and wait his appearance! What think ye, Jeemie?—Whan the Lord was deid upo’ the cross, they waitit but twa nichts, and there he was up afore them! here we hae waitit, close on a haill fortnicht—and naething even to pruv that she’s deid! still less ony sign that ever she’ll speyk word til’s again!—What think ye o’ ’t, man?”
“Gien ever she returns to life, I greatly doobt she’ll ever bring back her senses wi’ her!” said the mother, joining them from the inner chamber.
“Hoot, ye min’ the tale o’ the lady—Lady Fanshawe, I believe they ca’d her? She cam til hersel a’ richt i’ the en’!” said Peter.