The night had fallen when he reached the farm. The place was silent; its
doors were all shut; and when he opened the nearest, seldom used but for
the reception of strangers, not a soul was to be seen; no one came to
meet him, for no one had even thought of him, and certainly no one,
except it were the dead, desired his coming. He went into the parlour,
and there, from the dim chamber beyond, whose door stood open, appeared
his mother. Her heart big with grief, she clasped him in her arms, and
laid her cheek against his bosom: higher she could not reach, and
nearer than his breast-bone she could not get to him. No endearment
was customary between them: James had never encouraged or missed any;
neither did he know how to receive such when offered.
“I am distressed, mother,” he began, “to see you so upset; and I cannot
help thinking such a display of feeling unnecessary. If I may say so, it
seems to me unreasonable. You cannot, in such a brief period as this new
maid of yours has spent with you, have developed such an affection for
her, as this—” he hesitated for a word, “—as this _bouleversement_
would seem to indicate! The young woman can hardly be a relative, or
I should surely have heard of her existence! The suddenness of the
occurrence, of which I heard only from my shoemaker, MacLear, must have
wrought disastrously upon your nerves! Come, come, dear mother! you must
indeed compose yourself! It is quite unworthy of you, to yield to such a
paroxysm of unnatural and uncalled-for grief! Surely it is the part of a
Christian like you, to meet with calmness, especially in the case of one
you have known so little, that inevitable change which neither man
nor woman can avoid longer than a few years at most! Of course, the
appalling instantaneousness of it in the present case, goes far to
explain and excuse your emotion, but now at least, after so many hours
have elapsed, it is surely time for reason to resume her sway! Was
it not Schiller who said, ‘Death cannot be an evil, for it is
universal’?—At all events, it is not an unmitigated evil!” he
added—with a sigh, as if for his part he was prepared to welcome it.
During this prolonged and foolish speech, the gentle woman, whose
mother-heart had loved the poor girl that bore her daughter’s name, had
been restraining her sobs behind her handkerchief; but now, as she heard
her son’s cold commonplaces, it was, perhaps, a little wholesome anger
that roused her, and made her able to speak.
“Ye didna ken her, laddie,” she cried, “or ye wad never mint at layin
yer tongue upon her that gait!—’Deed na, ye wadna!—But I doobt gien
ever ye could hae come to ken her as she was—sic a bonny, herty sowl
as ance dwalt in yon white-faced, patient thing, lyin i’ the chaumer
there—wi’ the stang oot o’ her hert at last, and left the sharper i’
mine! But me and yer father—eh, weel we lo’ed her! for to hiz she was
like oor ain Isy,—ay, mair a dochter nor a servan—wi’a braw lovin
kin’ness in her, no to be luikit for frae ony son, and sic as we never
had frae ony afore but oor ain Isy.—Jist gang ye intil the closet
there, gien ye wull, and ye’ll see what’ll maybe saften yer hert a bit,
and lat ye unerstan’ what mak o’ a thing’s come to the twa auld fowk ye
never cared muckle aboot!”
James felt bitterly aggrieved by this personal remark of his mother. How
unfair she was! What had _he_ ever done to offend her? Had he not always
behaved himself properly—except indeed in that matter of which neither
she, nor living soul else, knew anything, or would ever know! What
right had she then to say such things to him! Had he not fulfilled
the expectations with which his father sent him to college? had he not
gained a position whose reflected splendour crowned them the parents of
James Blatherwick? She showed him none of the consideration or respect
he had so justly earned but never demanded! He rose suddenly, and
with never a thought save to leave his mother so as to manifest his
displeasure with her, stalked heedlessly into the presence of the more
heedless dead.
The night had indeed fallen, but, the little window of the room looking
westward, and a bar of golden light yet lying like a resurrection
stone over the spot where the sun was buried, a pale sad gleam, softly
vanishing, hovered, hardly rested, upon the lovely, still, unlooking
face, that lay white on the scarcely whiter pillow. Coming out of the
darker room, the sharp, low light blinded him a little, so that he saw
without any certainty of perception; yet he seemed to have something
before him not altogether unfamiliar, giving him a suggestion as of
something he had known once, perhaps ought now to recognize, but had
forgotten: the reality of it seemed to be obscured by the strange
autumnal light entering almost horizontally. Concluding himself oddly
affected by the sight of a room he had regarded with some awe in his
childhood, and had not set foot in it for a long time, he drew a
little nearer to the bed, to look closer at the face of this paragon
of servants, whose loss was causing his mother a sorrow so unreasonably
poignant.
The sense of her resemblance to some one grew upon him; but not yet had
he begun to recognize the death-changed countenance; he became assured
only that he _had_ seen that still face before, and that, would she but
open those eyes, he should know at once who she was.
Then the true suspicion flashed upon him: good God! _could it be_ the
dead Isy? Of course not! It was the merest illusion! a nonsensical
fancy, caused by the irregular mingling of the light and darkness! In
the daytime he could not have been so befooled by his imagination! He
had always known the clearness, both physical and mental, with which
he saw everything! Nevertheless, the folly had power to fix him staring
where he stood, with his face leant close to the face of the dead. It
was only like, it could not be the same! and yet he could not turn and
go from it! Why did he not, by the mere will in whose strength he took
pride, force his way out of the room? He stirred not a foot; he stared
and stood. And as he stared, the dead face seemed to come nearer him
through the darkness, growing more and more like the only girl he had
ever, though even then only in fancy, loved. If it was not she, how
could the dead look so like the living he had once known? At length
what doubt was left, changed suddenly to assurance that it must be she.
And—dare I say it?—it brought him a sense of relief! He breathed a
sigh of such false, rascally peace as he had not known since his sin,
and with that sigh he left the room. Passing his mother, who still wept
in the now deeper dusk of the parlour, with the observation that there
was no moon, and it would be quite dark before he reached the manse, he
bade her good-night, and went out.
When Peter, who unable to sit longer inactive had gone to the stable,
re-entered, foiled in the attempt to occupy himself, and sat down by his
wife, she began to talk about the funeral preparations, and the persons
to be invited. But such sorrow overtook him afresh, that even his wife,
herself inconsolable over her loss, was surprised at the depth of his
grief for one who was no relative. It seemed to him indelicate, almost
heartless of her to talk so soon of burying the dear one but just gone
from their sight: it was unnecessary dispatch, and suggested a lack of
reverence!
“What for sic a hurry?” he expostulated. “Isna there time eneuch to put
oot o’ yer sicht what ye ance lo’ed sae weel? Lat me be the nicht; the
morn ’ill be here sene eneuch! Lat my sowl rest a moment wi’ deith, and
haud awa wi yer funeral. ‘Sufficient til the day,’ ye ken!”
“Eh dear, but I’m no like you, Peter! Whan the sowl’s gane, I tak no
content i’ the presence o’ the puir worthless body, luikin what it never
mair can be! Na, I wad be rid o’ ’t, I confess!—But be it as ye wull,
my ain man! It’s a sair hert ye hae as weel as me i’ yer body this
nicht; and we maun beir ane anither’s burdens! The dauty may lie as we
hae laid her, the nicht throuw, and naething said: there’s little to be
dene for her; she’s a bonny clean corp as ever was, and may weel lie a
week afore we put her awa’!—There’s no need for ony to watch her; tyke
nor baudrins ’ill never come near her.—I hae aye won’ert what for fowk
wad sit up wi the deid: yet I min’ me weel they aye did i’ the auld
time.”
In this she showed, however, and in this alone, that the girl she
lamented was not her own daughter; for when the other Isy died, her body
was never for a moment left with the eternal spaces, as if she might
wake, and be terrified to find herself alone. Then, as if God had
forgotten them, they went to bed without saying their usual prayers
together: I fancy the visit of her son had been to Marion like the chill
of a wandering iceberg.
In the morning the farmer, up first as usual, went into the
death-chamber and sat down by the side of the bed, reproaching himself
that he had forgotten “worship” the night before.
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.
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.
“I don’t remember the story,” said James. “Such old world tales are
little to be heeded.”
“I min’ naething aboot it but jist that muckle,” said his father. “And I
can think o’ naething but that bonny lassie lyin there afore me naither
deid nor alive! I jist won’er, Jeames, that ye’re no as concernt, and as
fillt wi’ doobt and even dreid anent it as I am mysel!”
“We’re all in the hands of the God who created life and death,” returned
James, in a pious tone.
The father held his peace.
“And He’ll bring licht oot o’ the vera dark o’ the grave!” said the
mother.
Her faith, or at least her hope, once set agoing, went farther than her
husband’s, and she had a greater power of waiting than he. James had
sorely tried both her patience and her hope, and not even now had she
given him up.
“Ye’ll bide and share oor watch this ae nicht, Jeames?” said Peter.
“It’s an elrische kin o’ a thing to wauk up i’ the mirk mids, wi’ a deid
corp aside ye!—No ’at even yet I gie her up for deid! but I canna help
feelin some eerie like—no to say fleyt! Bide, man, and see the nicht
oot wi’ ’s, and gie yer mither and me some hert o’ grace.”
James had little inclination to add another to the party, and began to
murmur something about his housekeeper. But his mother cut him short
with the indignant remark—
“Hoot, what’s _she_?—Naething to you or ony o’ ’s! Lat her sit up for
ye, gien she likes! Lat her sit, I say, and never waste thoucht upo’ the
queyn!”
James had not a word to answer. Greatly as he shrank from the ordeal, he
must encounter it without show of reluctance! He dared not even propose
to sit in the kitchen and smoke. With better courage than will, he
consented to share their vigil. “And then,” he reflected, “if she should
come to herself, there would be the advantage he had foreseen and even
half desired!”
His mother went to prepare supper for them. His father rose, and saying
he would have a look at the night, went toward the door; for even
his strange situation could not entirely smother the anxiety of the
husbandman. But James glided past him to the door, determined not to be
left alone with that thing in the chamber.
But in the meantime the wind had been rising, and the coffin had been
tilting and resettling on its narrower end. At last, James opening the
door, the gruesome thing fell forward just as he crossed the threshold,
knocked him down, and settled on the top of him. His father, close
behind him, tumbled over the obstruction, divined, in the light of a
lamp in the passage, what the prostrate thing was, and scrambling to his
feet with the only oath he had, I fully believe, ever uttered, cried:
“Damn that fule, Willie Wabster! Had he naething better to dee nor
sen’ to the hoose coffins naebody wantit—and syne set them doon like
rotten-traps (_rat-traps_) to whomel puir Jeemie!” He lifted the thing
from off the minister, who rose not much hurt, but both amazed and
offended at the mishap, and went to his mother in the kitchen.
“Dinna say muckle to yer mither, Jeames laad,” said his father as
he went; “that is, dinna explain preceesely hoo the ill-faured thing
happent. _I’ll_ hae amen’s (_amends, vengeance_) upon him!” So saying,
he took the offensive vehicle, awkward burden as it was, in his two
arms, and carrying it to the back of the cornyard, shoved it over the
low wall into the dry ditch at its foot, where he heaped dirty straw
from the stable over it.
“It’ll be lang,” he vowed to himsel, “or Willie Wabster hear the last
o’ this!—and langer yet or he see the glint o’ the siller he thoucht
he was yirnin by ’t!—It’s come and cairry ’t hame himsel he sall, the
muckle idiot! He may turn ’t intil a breid-kist, or what he likes, the
gomf!”
“Fain wud I screw the reid heid o’ ’im intil that same kist, and
haud him there, short o’ smorin!” he muttered as he went back to the
house.—“Faith, I could ’maist beery him ootricht!” he concluded, with a
grim smile.
Ere he re-entered the house, however, he walked a little way up the
hill, to cast over the vault above him a farmer’s look of inquiry as to
the coming night, and then went in, shaking his head at what the clouds
boded.
Marion had brought their simple supper into the parlour, and was sitting
there with James, waiting for him. When they had ended their meal,
and Eppie had removed the remnants, the husband and wife went into the
adjoining chamber and sat down by the bedside, where James presently
joined them with a book in his hand. Eppie, having _rested_ the fire in
the kitchen, came into the parlour, and sat on the edge of a chair just
inside the door.
Peter had said nothing about the night, and indeed, in his wrath with
the carpenter, had hardly noted how imminent was the storm; but the air
had grown very sultry, and the night was black as pitch, for a solid
mass of cloud had blotted out the stars: it was plain that, long before
morning, a terrible storm must break. But midnight came and went, and
all was very still.
Suddenly the storm was upon them, with a forked, vibrating flash of
angry light that seemed to sting their eyeballs, and was replaced by a
darkness that seemed to crush them like a ponderous weight. Then all at
once the weight itself seemed torn and shattered into sound—into heaps
of bursting, roaring, tumultuous billows. Another flash, yet another and
another followed, each with its crashing uproar of celestial avalanches.
At the first flash Peter had risen and gone to the larger window of
the parlour, to discover, if possible, in what direction the storm was
travelling. Marion, feeling as if suddenly unroofed, followed him, and
James was left alone with the dead. He sat, not daring to move; but when
the third flash came, it flickered and played so long about the dead
face, that it seemed for minutes vividly visible, and his gaze was
fixed on it, fascinated. The same moment, without a single preparatory
movement, Isy was on her feet, erect on the bed.
A great cry reached the ears of the father and mother. They hurried into
the chamber: James lay motionless and senseless on the floor: a man’s
nerve is not necessarily proportioned to the hardness of his heart! The
verity of the thing had overwhelmed him.
Isobel had fallen, and lay gasping and sighing on the bed. She knew
nothing of what had happened to her; she did not yet know herself—did
not know that her faithless lover lay on the floor by her bedside.
When the mother entered, she saw nothing—only heard Isy’s breathing.
But when her husband came with a candle, and she saw her son on the
floor, she forgot Isy; all her care was for James. She dropped on her
knees beside him, raised his head, held it to her bosom, and lamented
over him as if he were dead. She even felt annoyed with the poor girl’s
moaning, as she struggled to get back to life. Why should she whose
history was such, be the cause of mishap to her reverend and honoured
son? Was she worth one of his little fingers! Let her moan and groan and
sigh away there—what did it matter! she could well enough wait a bit!
She would see to her presently, when her precious son was better!
Very different was the effect upon Peter when he saw Isy coming to
herself. It was a miracle indeed! It could be nothing less! White as was
her face, there was in it an unmistakable look of reviving life! When
she opened her eyes and saw her master bending over her, she greeted
him with a faint smile, closed her eyes again, and lay still. James also
soon began to show signs of recovery, and his father turned to him.
With the old sullen look of his boyhood, he glanced up at his mother,
still overwhelming him with caresses and tears.
“Let me up,” he said querulously, and began to wipe his face. “I feel so
strange! What can have made me turn so sick all at once?”
“Isy’s come to life again!” said his mother, with modified show of
pleasure.
“Oh!” he returned.
“Ye’re surely no sorry for that!” rejoined his mother, with a reaction
of disappointment at his lack of sympathy, and rose as she said it.
“I’m pleased to hear it—why not?” he answered. “But she gave me a
terrible start! You see, I never expected it, as you did!”
“Weel, ye _are_ hertless, Jeemie!” exclaimed his father. “Hae ye nae
spark o’ fellow-feelin wi’ yer ain mither, whan the lass comes to
life ’at she’s been fourteen days murnin for deid? But losh! she’s aff
again!—deid or in a dwaum, I kenna!—Is’t possible she’s gaein to slip
frae oor hand yet?”
James turned his head aside, and murmured something inaudibly.
But Isy had only fainted. After some eager ministrations on the part of
Peter, she came to herself once more, and lay panting, her forehead wet
as with the dew of death.
The farmer ran out to a loft in the yard, and calling the herd-boy, a
clever lad, told him to rise and ride for the doctor as fast as the mare
could lay feet to the road.
“Tell him,” he said, “that Isy has come to life, and he maun munt and
ride like the vera mischeef, or she’ll be deid again afore he wins til
her. Gien ye canna get the tae doctor, awa wi’ ye to the tither, and
dinna ley him till ye see him i’ the saiddle and startit. Syne ye can
ease the mere, and come hame at yer leisur; he’ll be here lang afore
ye!—Tell him I’ll pey him ony fee he likes, be’t what it may, and never
compleen!—Awa’ wi’ ye like the vera deevil!”
“I didna think ye kenned hoo _he_ rade,” answered the boy pawkily, as
he shot to the stable. “Weel,” he added, “ye maunna gley asklent at the
mere whan she comes hame some saipy-like!”
When he returned on the mare’s back, the farmer was waiting for him with
the whisky-bottle in his hand.
“Na, na!” he said, seeing the lad eye the bottle, “it’s no for you! ye
want a’ the sma’ wit ye ever hed: it’s no _you_ ’at has to gallop; ye
hae but to stick on!—Hae, Susy!”
He poured half a tumblerful into a soup-plate, and held it out to the
mare, who, never snuffing at it, licked it up greedily, and immediately
started of herself at a good pace.
Peter carried the bottle to the chamber, and got Isy to swallow a
little, after which she began to recover again. Nor did Marion forget to
administer a share to James, who was not a little in want of it.
When, within an hour, the doctor arrived full of amazed incredulity, he
found Isy in a troubled sleep, and James gone to bed.