by Ruth Glover
“But a trip that far! Franny, you’re attempting too much—”
“Nonsense! See how well and strong I am!” And Franny laughingly flexed a slender arm.
“Not really, Franny!” Kerry cried, hating above everything to confess her concerns. Franny’s health, always precarious, was exhibiting the same symptoms it had when Señor Garibaldi was in the picture; they were false then, and she feared they were false now. Kerry knew, if Franny did not, that Franny’s lungs were involved; she knew that the family doctor was gravely concerned over this flare-up of vitality and vigor. Was it, he wondered, eating away her remaining strength?
“The last thing you need is to be worked to death on some homestead! And it’s too soon! It hasn’t been all that long since you were flat on your back—sick, very, very sick! You need time to prove that this burst of well-being is real and lasting, and not a temporary thing!”
“Real and lasting, or temporary,” Franny said quietly—a Franny not heard from before—“it’s my chance for a life. Don’t try and talk me out of it, Kerry. I’m determined; my plans are made, and I’m going just as soon as I’m sure Connor Dougal has my letter advising him of my decision.”
“Connor Dougal—is that what you know about him—his name? With others to choose from, what made this one attractive, enough so that you’d pledge your life and, I suppose, your love? Or does that come later?” Kerry was very close to tears, and all in a desperate attempt to discourage Franny from the mind-boggling plans she was making.
Ignoring Kerry’s words and her tears, Franny rustled around and drew out a snapshot. It was unprofessional in quality, obviously taken with a small camera and somewhat indistinct, but the man’s face was clear enough. His hat was pushed back, and one lock of hair fell over his brow in attractive disarray. Kerry could find no fault with the square, rugged face, the cleft chin, the open expression.
“How can you be sure this is his picture? How do you know if this is really . . . what’s his name?” Kerry hadn’t really forgotten the name, nor would she ever. Franny had sung it like a paean of praise—Connor Dougal!
“I’ve read what he has to say, and it grips me,” Franny answered now, finally on the defensive. “And I know this much—he’s a homesteader in the Saskatchewan Territory. Doesn’t that awaken something in you—something that longs for new horizons?”
Kerry’s opinion of far horizons was very narrow at the moment. “I suppose,” she said hollowly, “you’ve sent him your picture, too.”
“Not yet. I want to have a new one taken, now that I look so much healthier—better. But I did send him a gift.”
“A gift? What—”
“I sent him,” Franny’s eyes were very bright, “my father’s vest chain.”
“Oh, Franny! The only thing you have of his! You can remember it shining across his vest and the little charm dangling from it—a small compass, wasn’t it? You played with that charm when he held you on his lap! You’ve told me so, and what a special memory it is! How could you—”
“It was the only masculine thing I had, and I sent it happily. I feel good knowing Connor Dougal—don’t you just love that name—is wearing it.”
“A farmer, Franny! How often have you seen a vest chain on a bib overall?”
“When he dresses up, I mean, of course,” Franny amended patiently.
Kerry, finally, was silent. What was there to say? Franny sounded very, very sure of herself.
“And so,” Franny was saying, “do you know how I finally made my choice among these responses? It was Connor Dougal’s address, the name of his town . . . community . . . where he lives. It’s Bliss, Kerry—Bliss. Could anything go wrong, with a delightful and promising name like that? I believe it’s an omen!”
What a hodgepodge they were, what a conglomeration of nationalities. From most corners of the world they came—all seeking a homestead.
“Keep Canada British” was the cry. But the gates were open, and like a mighty, rushing stream, they could not be stanched. Wanted or not, welcome or not—they came.
English settlers were pursued with some vigor. Contacted through a London office, every adult over twenty-one who signed on for western Canada was paid a bonus. Bonuses were also paid to Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Belgians, Scandinavians, and Germans.
Not so blessed, not so sought after—the Hungarians, Russians, Ukrainians, Poles. But they came. They took what was left, whether it was poplar or swamp, paid their ten dollar filing fee, got in their buggies, and drove the muddy roads to 160 acres that they could call their own. And, most generally, made a go of it. “Foreigners,” they were called, while the favored races were termed “white.” Their arrival by the thousands caused bitter debate in Parliament. “Canada is a dumping ground for the refuse of every country in the world,” one member was reported to have said rashly. But they were a quiet and industrious people. They were a hardworking people. Freedom was a prize to be treasured. Independence was a goal to be gained. They would, literally, earn the respect of their neighbors and the world in general, becoming Canadians along the way.
Before the railway, these settlers, choosing the Northwest, were outfitted in Red River and trailed in by cart, by boat, or by portage. Luxuries were not feasible to transport, and most homesteaders suffered unspeakable deprivation, simply “making do” on what the land provided.
On the open plains, unless lumber could be brought in, a soddy—turves from their own land, cut and piled, bricklike—was the only alternative for a home. Many people had a great aversion to them because it was generally thought they attracted fleas and bedbugs; certainly they were a plague to be reckoned with. In the sod hut’s favor—warm in winter, cool in summer, or at least warmer and cooler than a tar paper shack on the open prairie. For those who sought out the bush and accepted the backbreaking task of clearing five acres a year for three years, a log cabin, chinked and sealed, would be home.
The bush wasn’t friendly, it didn’t give ground easily. On the prairie it was just plow, and sow, perhaps chop a few willow roots; in the bush it was chop and cut all day, and for many days out of the year. In spite of that, there were those who rejected the prairie with its unending horizon and terrifying loneliness and chose the green and near-impenetrable bush. But prairie or bush, the land was pocked with sloughs, sloughs, and more sloughs, and overhead was a sky whose vastness was beyond expressing or grasping. Prairie or bush—the venturesome and visionary dared; the stubborn and desperate endured.
Connor Dougal had chosen the bush. Five years of backbreaking toil had seen the clearing of twenty acres for planting; another dozen acres cleared for pasture but with their stumps not yet grubbed out; a garden spot, a farmyard dotted with several small buildings, and a house that was little more than a cabin. Connor Dougal was a landowner, a man contented with his accomplishments thus far and with a dream and a plan to bring it to fruition.
Gregor Slovinski, his neighbor in one direction, though older than Connor, was more lately come. His bush was giving way, slowly but surely, under the mighty swings of his axe. For pure physical accomplishments, no one could compete with the mountainous “foreigner.” He was too good-natured to create trouble or to react with violence to teasing—most of it being in fun anyway. And he was too big and strong to be picked on seriously.
Between the neighbors, a bond of friendship had developed. Both were bachelors, both were homesteaders and were clean-living, clean-talking males. Both were believers, having been brought to salvation in Jesus Christ by the young, green, but earnest pastor, Parker Jones.
Parker Jones had been in Bliss two years. But in that time, a remarkable change had taken place in two of the district’s most eligible bachelors—Gregor Slovinski and Connor Dougal. Steady, dependable Connor, and powerful Gregor—an unlikely pair but brothers in Christ. They found occasions to help one another, to eat together, to travel to town together, to attend church services in Bliss together. To pray together.
As for marriage—perhaps because of th
eir new faith and the principles each was attempting to live by—their contemplation of it was cautious, careful, Christian.
They discussed it at times, and usually in the presence of their minister and friend, Parker Jones, who was himself unmarried. Each man usually had advice to give the others, less eager to take advice himself. A good deal of teasing, chaffing, and kidding marked their times together.
Many a lonely evening was passed in what each thought was good company.
“You, at least,” Connor Dougal pointed out to his pastor one evening after chores as the three sat around his table, discussing this ever-interesting topic and sipping coffee as black as the inside of the pot from which it was poured, “have hopes in that direction. You nabbed onto the best prospect in the district.”
“Nabbed is hardly the word,” Parker Jones amended with a smile. “But you’re right about one thing—Molly is the best.”
“Then why, for heaven’s sake, are you skirmishing around about marriage and settling down? You might consider being a better example to us, right, Gregor?”
“Yah. You bedder vatch out, my frien’. Here you haff two poor bohunks who iss looking for such a vun as Miss Molly Morrison,” rumbled Gregor, giving Parker Jones a sly poke in the ribs that almost toppled him from his chair.
“I’m praying about it, you two! There’s a time and a season for all things—”
“Yah, yah, ve know—a time to be born, a time to plant, a time to laugh, a time to luff, a time to hate—vy does it say dere’s a time to hate, Parker? Issen dat a bad ting?”
“How about,” added Connor, “‘whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer’?”
As so often happened when these three got together, a discussion broke out. This time it was over “hating” and its meaning, as opposed to “esteem less,” which Parker Jones brought forward as a better rendering of the passage that says if a man comes to Christ, he cannot be a disciple unless he hates his father, mother, brethren, sisters, and even his own life.
“Esteem less, eh? That makes sense. You see why we need you, Gregor and I? But, Parker—this talk of quitting the church, now where did that come from? And how about Molly? What does she think of this? And how does she fit into this picture—would she be happy away from Bliss and her family? Her old Mam—her grandmother—is not long for this world.”
Parker Jones sighed. In need of a confidant, he had shared, in a dark moment, his feelings of insecurity regarding his call to the ministry, the size of the task, and his poor showing (he thought) as a pastor. The recent death of Henley Baldwin, for instance, had shaken him considerably. Not that Henley, a believer, hadn’t made it to heaven and his eternal rest, but that he, as pastor, hadn’t made Henley’s apparently miserable life easier, happier.
“It would have taken a miracle for that,” Connor Dougal said. “The odds were against his happiness, what with Della’s personality and all. What a brabbler!”
“Now vait a minute,” Gregor said. “Brabbler? Vos iss? Maybe she vas yust sick to det’ of the homesteat. Ve know dat many vomen break down, some die even, and many yust fade avay. She’s a mighty . . . ah, spiff voman.”
“Spiff! That’s a new one. I’m not sure Della’d go for that,” laughed Connor, while Gregor puffed and huffed until the color of his cheeks was almost one with his cinnamon-tinted hair and beard.
“She needs our understanding, I’m sure of that,” the pastor said, wondering at the same time if he could practice what he preached.
“That poor kid Dudley. He’s stuck here for sure.” A concerned Connor shook his head. “I think, from what I can make out, Tilda Hooper has made the decision to look elsewhere. That puts one more back on the list of available females, Gregor. It’s a mighty skimpy list—Molly already spoken for, Matilda looking the Felker lad’s way, and Gramma Jurgenson.”
All three bachelors grinned, though it was a serious topic.
“You forgot one, Connor. And dat’s Della Baldwin.”
“A fate worse than death,” muttered Connor Dougal.
The three men, bachelors all and wishing otherwise, gloomily contemplated their options and, except for Parker Jones, found the future hopeless insofar as marriage was concerned.
“Ah well,” Connor said, “let’s be grateful for small blessings—anyone want more coffee?”
His compatriots groaned and extended their cups.
Franny’s cheeks had gone from blazing red to chalk white, all within a few moments after the reading of a letter.
Ever since Fanny had revealed her “secret” to Kerry, her plans had been an open book, and she had shared any correspondence with her freely, with excitement. Proud, she was, proud of her spirit of independence, proud of her ability to make and carry out her plans, proud of the surge of strength that came with each day’s challenge. And proud of the connection with the good-looking man in the small photo.
She had been waiting impatiently for Connor Dougal’s response to her letter telling him that she was prepared to make the trip to Saskatchewan. He would not only confirm her decision as being right and proper but would give instructions about just what day of the week would be best to arrive and where she should disembark. Her supposition was that Prince Albert was the nearest station; Bliss, she understood, for all its beauty and promise, was not on the railway line. He would have looked into accommodations for her, whether in the more distant Prince Albert or in the hamlet of Bliss, where she would be comfortable until their plans could be finalized and, glory be! the wedding take place. Yes, it was important to hear from Connor Dougal.
Franny and Kerry were together in Franny’s room, repacking for the umpteenth time, rearranging, removing the questionable, adding anything that had been purchased lately and deemed to be indispensable to life in the bush, on a homestead, in a log house. Connor Dougal, Franny said, had written descriptively of his bush home. That letter had been one of several she had happily shared with Kerry.
My house has become my pride and joy, as it is one of the finest in the community. Much thought has gone into making it comfortable, as well as pleasing to the eye. Most homes here are of log, rather crude and even makeshift, certainly not to be considered a long-term dwelling. And certainly not proper for a lady! It is set in a grove of poplars, yet with enough clearing so that it is filled with light. It has been my pleasure to add plenty of windows, something that is often lacking in hastily built shacks. You, if you care to, may want to add rugs to the floor in place of the huge bear skin that is currently before the fireplace. It makes for comfortable, casual lolling about of an evening. As I relax there and dream, after a long day’s work, it is of having you at my side, the firelight on your face and bringing a gleam into your eyes that only I can satisfy.
Franny read in a low voice, coloring daintily before the final sentence was through. Folding the letter again, she clasped it to her breast, and her eyes did indeed, even now, have an unaccustomed gleam in them.
Kerry wanted to cry out to her, “Franny, how can you be sure he’s telling the truth? How do you know he isn’t a charlatan after your money?” Wanting to cry out, she kept silent; the days of questions, reproach, and warning were all in the past. Franny had defended Connor Dougal staunchly and had insisted, moreover, on her right to make her own decisions. “After all,” she said, “I’m twenty-four years old, an adult by anybody’s reckoning.”
“Yes, but love is blind, Franny! How can you love someone you haven’t even seen, haven’t talked to—”
“I’ve ‘talked’ to him, Kerry. By mail and more intimately than I’ve ever talked to anyone. Except you,” she amended hastily, seeing the reproach in Kerry’s eyes. “But,” she added, “it’s on a different level . . . it’s different altogether, Kerry, when your heart is involved. It’s a sort of . . . sweet intimacy.” Franny dropped her eyes as she hesitated over the final revelation.
“Sweet intimacy—when he’s a thousand and more miles away and you’re here?” Kerry had all but exploded. But this was in the d
ays before she learned to keep her thoughts to herself and to refrain from responses that hurt and sometimes aggravated her dear Franny. But oh, she gritted to herself, that I could go and confront this deceiver!
That Franny’s heart was involved was never the question—it did indeed seem to be. The problem—to Kerry and to Aunt Charlotte, who of course had to be let in on the plans—was the trustworthiness of the stranger at the other end of the relationship.
“At least let me send Gladdy along with you,” Aunt Charlotte pleaded, but to no avail. “It’s not proper for a lady—particularly a young lady—to travel all alone.”
“No, Aunt Charlotte, though I thank you. This is my responsibility and mine alone. I’ve made the decision independently and will carry it out by myself. I plan to stay there, to live there, to make a life for myself there, and what would Gladdy do then? Come back, of course, but—by herself?”
And so the problem went round and round, and it was Aunt Charlotte, eventually, who gave in. Though not that exactly; Aunt Charlottte was stiff-armed, and by the sweet and tender person of the usually pliable, obedient Frances. Franny was obdurate, fixed, set in her determination, and no amount of persuasion or threat changed her mind.
Stubborn, Charlotte called it, and for perhaps the first time since Frances had come to live at Maxwell Manor, she found her instructions ignored. It was galling, to say the least; maddening in the extreme.
Together the girls were examining the bicycle suit and the bloomers, a subject of much dissention in the newspapers and at all female gatherings. That it was actually a reappearance for bloomers, some knew, recalling that they had first appeared in the 1860s. At that time, Mrs. Bloomer’s “bifurcated nether garment” caused great outrage on sight, and few women wore them twice. Now here they were again, a menace that would not go away. Perhaps, with the furor in the press and the denunciation from many pulpits, they would do just that, but to date they appeared to be doing the exact opposite, as women, like Franny, boldly declared their individualism and purchased them.
