With Love from Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Could the real thing be any sweeter than the tender manner in which, once home, he handed her down from the wagon? Could anything offer more promise than the way his lips came down towards her, lingered, and touched themselves to her forehead? Could anything have held more promise?

  “From now on,” she exulted later to Gladdy, “I just have to be nice, and gentle, and make myself terribly attractive to him, and he’ll be hooked and humiliated and given the heave-ho.”

  “But, Kerry,” a sighing Gladdy replied, “you are naturally nice and gentle and attractive.”

  “Not to Connor Dougal, I’m not! Or at least not for long!” Kerry answered grimly and wondered why she so dreaded the destroying of his opinion of her. What did she care!

  Plenty, her silly heart whispered.

  If you were a praying person,” Gladdy said, with great seriousness, “I’d get you to pray about today’s excursion.”

  Kerry was thrown into turbulence of spirit for a moment. Never had it been said and said so baldly: If you were a praying person. She couldn’t defend herself; Gladdy had lived with her too long for her to be defensive of her prayer practices, which, aside from “Now I lay me” as a small child, were nonexistent.

  Having heard Parker Jones preach, she wondered now how she had been so presumptuous as to suppose she could make her way through the trials and temptations, pitfalls and pressures of life without prayer. And yet, when she tried to pray, she was as one stricken dumb. What did one say when approaching the great God of the universe, the God who sitteth upon the circle of the earth, and the inhabitants thereof are as grasshoppers? The God who thundereth marvelously with his voice? The Ancient of days, whose throne is like the fiery flame, and his wheels as burning fire?

  Filled with Scriptures that stirred, troubled, and worried, Kerry had somehow overlooked those that would have comforted, guided, and encouraged.

  “Gladdy,” she reminded now, “you could pray for yourself, you know,” and Gladdy fell into the same ruminative silence as Kerry. With all their studying and reading, something had been significantly overlooked.

  “The sooner we get out of this place, the better,” Kerry declared. “Your future is set, and you’ll be gone soon enough. But me? I’ll have to get to work with more determination. And if the outcome astonishes and dismays the people of Bliss, so be it. I’ll do my best—or worst—and get myself out of here, never to be seen or heard from again.”

  But would she? There was something compelling about the place, this place called Bliss. Something on the inside of her called, Don’t go—you’ll never find another place like it! What a turmoil of feelings!

  As for Gladdy, she was exalted to a place of pure joy. Hadn’t Dudley declared his love for her, and wasn’t she even now feeling an answering surge of warmth in her heart toward him? Till death do us part—it was a solemn thought and a sweet one. After years of aloneness, Gladdy belonged. She would dare the wilderness itself if Dudley were at her side.

  Today, however, she was to go to the Baldwin homestead to help lay serious plans, to add her life savings to Dudley’s funds and make lists of things to buy, things to do, things to pack.

  Kerry, at a loss to know how to accomplish her own ends quickly, refused the invitation to go along. “No, thank you,” she said with fervency. “I know trouble when I see it, and I’m staying away from that Della Baldwin.”

  Never having driven a rig in her life, Gladdy borrowed Ida’s horse and buggy and, stiff as a poker with anxiety, took off down the road. Kerry stood in the yard watching, convulsed with laughter that was tempered by concern. If Gladdy survived, she would try the same thing, perhaps ending up at Connor’s place for a cup of tea . . . was that out of the question? She feared it was. If only she could indeed pray, what a prayer she would make! And all directed toward a bitter consummation of Connor Dougal’s responsibility in Franny’s death. Not quite certain that God would be in sympathy with such a prayer, she remained silent. And strangely dissatisfied.

  When Gladdy, perspiring and weak from tenseness, pulled into the Baldwin yard, Dudley was awaiting her. There was a fine glow on his face as he reached for her hand and helped her down.

  “Brave girl,” he said and, mother or no mother, touched his lips to hers. Each started back, as though a spark had been ignited between them. Staring at each other, silent and awed, neither spoke.

  “For heaven’s sake, Dud, tie up that horse and bring the girl inside!” Della’s querulous call rang out from the shadow of the porch.

  Walking side by side, carefully not touching, Dudley and Gladdy crossed the yard and entered the house.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Baldwin,” Gladdy said, obviously still bemused by Mother Nature’s explosive confirmation of the feeling developing between herself and her “intended.”

  “That’ll be your name, don’t forget, if this madcap plan goes through. But then, you’re old enough to make up your own mind. If Dudley is bound and determined to go his own way, then I guess it’s a good thing he’ll have somebody to go along with him.” With that, Della seemed to lay aside her objections and went about helping.

  Gladdy was surprised and pleased to see the sets of dish towels and pillowcases, the odds and ends of household gear, the canned goods and condiments that Della had laid aside for her son’s use in his new venture. “Might as well go prepared,” she said offhandedly. “Henley and I were in the same situation once, with much less in the way of goods. We made it, and you can too.”

  Gladdy was in a daze of mixed feelings: her new association with a husband-to-be; Della’s surprising attitude; the wonderful selection of things she and Dudley would have to take with them. For a girl who had owned nothing all her life in the way of worldly goods, it was a marvel and a wonder.

  Before she climbed into the buggy for the return trip to the stopping place, Gregor had arrived on the scene. Gregor was bringing equipment to the Baldwin farm, replacing the items Dudley was taking with him.

  “That Della surprised me,” Gladdy later reported to Kerry. “Perhaps it was seeing all these things in excellent shape that Gregor was bringing to the Baldwin place, or maybe it was finding out that I wasn’t quite a pauper and had funds to put toward this venture. But anyway, whatever the reason, she was as nice as anyone could want—”

  “‘I washed my steps with butter,’” Kerry murmured, and Gladdy frowned.

  “Now what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t interpret them,” Kerry said loftily, “I just quote them.”

  Quite used to these scriptural interruptions, Gladdy sighed and continued. “Back to Della—if you care to listen—Dudley says she can be that way, nice one minute, cutting like a knife the next. I guess I’m glad we’ll be out from under all that. Do you know what else she said?” Gladdy blushed a rosy red. “‘The worst thing about all this is that you won’t be around so I can dandle grandchildren on my knee.’”

  “Heavens! What did you say to that?”

  “Well, nothing, actually, though I felt like saying ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched!’” And both girls fell onto the bed, laughing. But it was a joyous laugh. Joyous for Kerry because her friend seemed truly happy; joyous for Gladdy because these blessings were in sight and no longer an impossible dream.

  Dudley and Gregor had much to do before Dudley should be free to leave. They were making the Baldwin wagon into a covered wagon or prairie schooner; they were sorting harness and tools, deciding what the home place could do without and what Dudley should take. He would take the team of horses, a cow and her calf, and the dog.

  They were turning a small shed, or granary, on the Baldwin place into a shack for Gregor. The two homesteads were part of the same section and could be reached by a track between the properties, but there would be times when movement between the two would be impossible due to the dropped temperature or the drifts of snow that tended to pile up when snowstorm followed snowstorm.

  Gregor felt he should be near so that
Della would feel secure until she became accustomed to living alone. So he supposed—and Dudley agreed—that it would be good to bring his cattle over. In that way, he could milk cows for both households and care for all the stock at the same time. That meant, of course, that this shack would be Gregor’s home; the cabin on his homestead would remain vacant most of the time.

  “I think,” Dudley had confided in Gladdy, “that he wants to have a place where he can go if things get too miserable here. Trouble was—Dad never had that option. It might have cooled Ma down rapidly if he had ever stood up to her or pulled out . . . or something.”

  When Gregor’s housing arrangement was explained to Della, she merely sniffed. Gregor and Dudley hid their grins.

  Della was turning out to be more of a surprise than anyone would have imagined. Curtains appeared for the shack’s windows, then a braided rug. Gregor brought a small, flat-topped heater on which he could heat coffee and food, a bed, and a comfortable wooden rocking chair. A cushion appeared, as if by magic, padding the chair’s seat. And, interestingly, it matched the curtains.

  “Charming,” Connor ventured, having come over to help and staying to admire. Gregor’s mighty fist was shaken in Connor’s face.

  “Hey, back off!” Connor spluttered in mock terror. Even in play, Gregor’s strength was formidable. No bearcat would tangle with him, for sure and certain! Would Della?

  “Gregor,” Connor said, becoming thoughtful, “looks to me as if you’re settling in here for the long haul.”

  “Could be. Could be,” Gregor said noncommittally.

  Connor pondered the situation. Della had been a widow for three years or so. A handsome woman in her prime, with an abundance of energy, she could very well consider marriage again. Especially with her son absent and the house empty of a male presence.

  Connor studied Gregor. No telling exactly how old he was, but surely no more than two or three years younger than Della, if that. Connor had an idea that if Gregor shaved off his beard and cut back his hair, his age might be revealed as far different than anyone suspected; there was considerable gray in the cinnamon-tinted aura that ringed his head.

  He had been married years ago and fathered a child. Yes, Gregor had lived, had suffered, had survived. This present challenge was small in comparison, Connor supposed.

  “Vat aboud you, my fren’?” Gregor asked, casting a keen if small eye on his friend and interrupting Connor’s speculations.

  Connor feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”

  How much should he share of his hopes, Connor wondered, his tentative dreams? This man Gregor was the closest friend he had, along with Parker Jones. If they couldn’t share personal things with one another, there would be no one else. He knew that Gregor was a praying man, and there was something about this situation with the newcomer Kerry Ferne that had him puzzled, almost uneasy, and it demanded prayer.

  Gregor shot Connor another knowing glance. “Don’t blay dum wit’ me! I mean dat young voman Kerry. Vat you gonna do aboud her? She’s only gonna be here a few veeks more, I tink. You gotta vork fast, my fren’, if you’re inderested. And I tink you’re crazy if you’re not.”

  Removing a nail from his mouth and hammering it into the floor they were repairing, Connor’s response, from his kneeling position, was muffled.

  “You ‘tink’ too much!” Connor said. “You’re too suspicious. But I suppose it’s natural, whenever an unattached woman comes around. I admit, Gregor, I’m in deep. But so far, just in my thinking.”

  Connor sat back on his heels, his disreputable hat pushed onto the back of his head, his forehead creased in a frown, and his eyes thoughtful. “There’s something about it all that troubles me. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m praying a lot, though, and I wonder if this is some check of the Spirit. Parker Jones assures us the Lord will give wisdom when we ask. I’m asking. I wouldn’t want to marry the wrong person; making a mistake that would wreck my entire life, not to mention hers.”

  “Neder should you let her get avay if she’s da right vun. An’ you ain’t got long to make up your min’!”

  “Will you help me pray, my friend?”

  Gregor assured Connor that he would, adding, “An’ you, Connor, how about you praying aboud me and, me an’ . . . dis Della arrangement.”

  And so it was agreed. They parted company, each much more at ease than before, and feeling that, having committed their way to the Lord and trusting in Him, He would bring it to pass.

  Kerry and Gladdy had another Sunday dinner at the Morrisons’, and not only were Gregor and Connor included, but now Dudley must come, too. With his new status as husband-to-be and his plans to take to the road very soon, trekking even farther north and west, there was a dignity about the young man that had been missing when his life was at loose ends and his dreams hopeless.

  Kerry worked her wiles, such as they were, on Connor Dougal. Why was it, she wondered, more frustrated than was called for, that he directed such straight looks at her? Why was there very little laughter and repartee on his part, when he was not a humorless person? Why did she feel that Cupid’s bows were falling short of their mark? Half-sick with the sham and the charade, Kerry’s feelings dropped to an all-time low.

  It’s not working! she thought, and I can’t wait around here forever. I guess I’ll have to corner him, accuse him and destroy him, and do it ruthlessly! And it all seemed sadly dissatisfying.

  When dinner was over and Mary and Mam were down for their needed Sunday afternoon rest, the young women—Kerry and Gladdy, Molly and Margo—enjoyed the comradeship of doing up the dishes together while the men took themselves off to the shade of a nearby poplar. Even Kerry, who had no previous experience, plunged in and helped.

  “Have you had any success in finding a place?” Molly asked.

  Kerry shook her head. “No, and I’ll not look much longer.”

  Gladdy glanced at her sharply. Was this trip’s purpose, for Kerry, about to come to an end?

  “You could take our buggy for a day, if you wish,” Molly said, rubbing the dishrag with Fels Naptha and working up a suds, “and drive around the area. Sometimes people don’t really know how badly they want to leave until the opportunity presents itself. Cash speaks louder than words in instances like that.”

  “Thanks, but it isn’t a matter of life and death,” Kerry explained, not wanting to buy a place by any stretch of the imagination; simply needing an excuse to stay in Bliss.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Gladdy asked later in the privacy of their room at the stopping place, “that you’re being as deceitful as Connor Dougal was?”

  Kerry flared angrily. “Don’t mention my name in the same breath with that pious trickster! It isn’t the same thing at all! He deliberately set about to victimize—”

  “And you’re not?”

  “He dropped her like her feelings didn’t matter!”

  “Won’t you, when this is over?”

  “She never heard from him again!”

  “Will they hear from you? Face it, Kerry. You are deceiving them, and you don’t care about their feelings; you’ll pull out of here once Connor is unmasked and go off and leave a real mess here for others to handle. Right?”

  “It has to be done,” Kerry persisted stubbornly, and Gladdy fell silent.

  But a little seed had been planted, and try as she would, Kerry couldn’t get it out of her mind. The remainder of the day and into the evening she was heavyhearted, restless, torn. At last she threw up her hands, figuratively speaking, in capitulation to what Gladdy had said, and admitted to herself with painful honesty that she was nothing but a miserable fraud, no better than the man she had come to persecute.

  With Gladdy already retired for the night, Ida said, “I’m going to my room, Kerry. Will you put out the lamp, please, when you come to bed?” and Kerry, troubled and despairing, went outside, to stand alone in the fragrant night and look up at the stars. Their steadfastness, their quiet, seemed to mock her unquiet spirit.<
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  “‘Behold,’” she cried out to them silently, tears on her cheeks, “‘for peace I had great bitterness.’”

  They twinkled on, they shimmered, distant and silent. Feeling like a speck in comparison, Kerry prayed the first spontaneous prayer of her life, tossing it out into endless whirling space to find its way—she knew not where.

  But first it was natural, being Kerry and overwhelmed by heaven’s vastness, that a verse of Scripture would come into her mind: “‘When I consider thy heavens,’” she murmured brokenly, “‘the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him?’”

  Then she explained humbly—and it was the little waif Kerry speaking—“O Lord, in your Book, when it says ‘him,’ I believe it means ‘her,’ too. Then, O Lord, ‘what is woman, that thou art mindful of her?’ Please, O Lord,” and the cry was a prayer, “be mindful of me!”

  The night continued silent, the air continued fragrant, the stars were unchanging. Kerry went inside, prepared herself for bed, blew out the lamp, climbed into bed, closed her eyes, and felt that the dark wasn’t as impenetrable as it had seemed before she prayed.

  Gregor Slovinski stopped by the Connor Dougal place to drop off the mail he had collected on his trip to the post office. Finding Connor taking a break with a cup of coffee and a cold biscuit, Gregor joined him at the table.

  “How’s it going?” Connor asked. “I don’t see as much of you as I did before you moved. Having the care of two places really doubles your work. Or will, when Dudley is gone. How are you getting along with Della?” Might as well be blunt about it, Connor figured.

  “So far, so good,” Gregor said, spreading syrup on a biscuit and taking a huge bite out of it. “Vat a voman!”

  Connor looked at his friend with surprise, perhaps even awe. “You’re kidding, surely! You almost sounded admiring. What would prompt such an evaluation of the brittle and bristly Della?”