The Elect Lady Part 30

"Oh, no, no, ma'am!" protested Andrew.

"Hear me out, Andrew," she interrupted--then paused a little.

"Tell me," she resumed, "ought we not to love best the best we know?"

"Surely, ma'am!" he answered, uncomfortable, but not antic.i.p.ating what was on the way.

"Andrew, you are the best I know! I have said it! I do not care what the world thinks; you are more to me than all the worlds! If you will take me, I am yours."

She looked him in the face with the feeling that she had done a brave and a right thing.

Andrew stood stock-still.

"_Me_, ma'am!" he gasped, and grew pale--then red as a foggy sun. But he made scarcely a moment's pause.

"It's a G.o.d-like thing you have done, ma'am!" he said. "But I can not make the return it deserves. From the heart of my heart I thank you. I can say no more."

His voice trembled. She heard a stifled sob. He had turned away to conceal his emotion.

And now came greatness indeed to the front. Instead of drawing herself up with the bitter pride of a woman whose best is scorned, Alexa behaved divinely. She went close to Andrew, laid her hand on his arm, and said:

"Forgive me, Andrew. I made a mistake. I had no right to make it. Do not be grieved, I beg; you are nowise to blame. Let us continue friends!"

"Thank you, ma'am!" said Andrew, in a tone of deepest grat.i.tude; and neither said a word more. They walked side by side back to the house.

Said Alexa to herself:

"I have at least been refused by a man worthy of the honor I did him! I made no mistake in _him_!"

When they reached the door, she stopped. Andrew took off his hat, and said, holding it in his hand as he spoke:

"Good-night, ma'am! You _will_ send for me if you want me?"

"I will. Good-night!" said Alexa, and went in with a strange weight on her heart.

Shut in her room, she wept sorely, but not bitterly; and the next day old Meg, at least, saw no change in her.

Said Andrew to himself:

"I will be her servant always."

He was humbled, not uplifted.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

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!"

"G.o.d is with us, Dawtie."

"Are you sure, Andrew?"

"Dawtie, I can not see G.o.d'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 G.o.d. But, Dawtie, there is that in my heart that cries Christ _did_ die, and _did_ rise again, and G.o.d 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! G.o.d 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?"