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.”
