ANOTHER OFFERING.
The next evening, that before the trial, Andrew presented himself at the
prison, and was admitted. Dawtie came to meet him, held out her hand,
and said:
“Thank you, Andrew!”
“How are you, Dawtie?”
“Well enough, Andrew!”
“God is with us, Dawtie.”
“Are you sure, Andrew?”
“Dawtie, I can not see God's eyes looking at me, but I am ready to do
what He wants me to do, and so I feel He is with me.”
“Oh, Andrew, I wish I could be sure!”
“Let us take the risk together, Dawtie!”
“What risk, Andrew?”
“The risk that makes you not sure, Dawtie--the risk that is at once the
worst and the least--the risk that our hope should be in vain, and there
is no God. But, Dawtie, there is that in my heart that cries Christ
_did_ die, and _did_ rise again, and God is doing His best. His perfect
love is our perfect safety. It is hard upon Him that His own children
will not trust Him!”
“If He would but show Himself!”
“The sight of Him now would make us believe in Him without knowing Him;
and what kind of faith would that be for Him or for us! We should be bad
children, taking Him for a weak parent! We must _know_ Him! When we do,
there will be no fear, no doubt. We shall run straight home! Dawtie,
shall we go together?”
“Yes, surely, Andrew! God knows I try. I'm ready to do whatever you tell
me, Andrew!”
“No, Dawtie! You must never do what I tell you, except you think it
right.”
“Yes, I know that. But I am sure I should think it right!”
“We've been of one mind for a long time now, Dawtie!”
“Sin' lang afore I had ony min' o' my ain!” responded Dawtie, turning to
her vernacular.
“Then let us be of one heart too, Dawtie!”
She was so accustomed to hear Andrew speak in figures, that sometimes
she looked through and beyond his words.
She did so now, and seeing nothing, stood perplexed.
“Winna ye, Dawtie?” said Andrew, holding out his hands.
“I dinna freely un'erstan' ye, An'rew.”
“Ye h'avenly idiot,” cried Andrew. “Wull ye be my wife, or wull ye no?”
Dawtie threw her shapely arms above her head--straight up, her head fell
back, and she seemed to gaze into the unseen. Then she gave a gasp, her
arms dropped to her sides, and she would have fallen had not Andrew
taken her.
“Andrew! Andrew!” she sighed, and was still in his arms.
“Winna ye, Dawtie?” he whispered.
“Wait,” she murmured; “wait.”
“I winna wait, Dawtie.”
“Wait till ye hear what they'll say the morn.”
“Dawtie, I'm ashamed o' ye. What care I, an' what daur ye care what they
say. Are ye no the Lord's clean yowie? Gien ye care for what ony man
thinks o' ye but the Lord himsel', ye're no a' His. Gien ye care for
what I think o' ye, ither-like nor what He thinks, ye're no sae His as I
maun hae ye afore we pairt company--which, please God, 'ill be on the
ither side o' eternity.”
“But, An'rew, it winna do to say o' yer father's son 'at he took his
wife frae the jail.”
“'Deed they s' say naething ither! What ither cam I for? Would ye hae me
ashamed o' ane o' God's elec'--a lady o' the Lord's ain coort?”
“Eh, but I'm feart it's a' the compassion o' yer hert, sir. Ye wad fain
mak' up to me for the disgrace. Ye could weel do wantin' me.”
“I winna say,” returned Andrew, “that I couldna live wantin' ye, for
that wad be to say I wasna worth offerin' ye, and it would be to deny
Him 'at made you and me for ane anither, but I wad have a some sair
time! I'll jist speak to the minister to be ready the minute the Lord
opens yer prison-door.”
The same moment in came the governor with his wife; they were much
interested in Dawtie.
“Sir, and ma'am,” said Andrew, “will you please witness that this woman
is my wife?”
“It's Maister Andrew Ingram o' the Knowe,” said Dawtie. “He wants me to
merry him.”
“I want her to go before the court as my wife,” said Andrew. “She would
have me wait till the jury said this or that. The jury give me my wife.
As if I didn't know her.”
“You won't have him, I see,” said Mrs. Innes, turning to Dawtie.
“Hae him!” cried Dawtie, “I wad hae him gien there war but the heid o'
him.”
“Then you are husband and wife,” said the governor; “only you should
have the thing done properly by the minister--afterward.”
“I'll see to that, sir,” answered Andrew.
“Come, wife,” said the governor, “we must let them have a few minutes
alone together.”
“There,” said Andrew, when the door closed, “ye're my wife, noo, Dawtie.
Lat them acquit ye or condemn ye, it's you an' me, noo, whatever come!”
Dawtie broke into a flood of tears--an experience all but new to
her--and found it did her good. She smiled as she wiped her eyes, and
said:
“Weel, An'rew, gien the Lord hasna appeart in His ain likeness to
deliver me, He's done the next best thing.”
“Dawtie,” answered Andrew, “the Lord never does the next best. The thing
He does is always better than the thing He does not.”
“Lat me think, an' I'll try to un'erstan',” said Dawtie, but Andrew went
on.
“The best thing, whan a body's no ready for 't, would be the warst to
gie him--or ony gait no the thing for the Father o' lichts to gie.
Shortbreid micht be waur for a half hungert bairn nor a stane. But the
minute it's fit we should look upo' the face o' the Son o' Man, oor ain
God-born brither, we'll see him, Dawtie; we'll see him. Hert canna think
what it'll be like. And noo, Dawtie, wull ye tell me what for ye wouldna
lat me come and see ye afore?”
“I wull, An'rew; I was nae suner left to mysel' i' the prison than I
faun' mysel' thinkin' aboot _you_--you first, and no the Lord. I said to
mysel', 'This is awfu'. I'm leanin' upo' An'rew, and no upo' the First
and the Last.' I saw that that was to brak awa' frae Him that was
nearest me, and trust ane that was farther awa'--which wasna i' the holy
rizzon o' things. Sae I said to mysel' I would meet my fate wi' the Lord
alane, and wouldna hae you come 'atween Him and me. Noo ye hae 't,
An'rew.”
Andrew took her in his arms and said:
“Thank ye, Dawtie. Eh, but I _am_ content And she thought she hadna
faith. Good-night, Dawtie. Ye maun gane to yer bed, an' grow stoot in
hert for the morn.”