by Ruth Glover
Cameron’s voice died away. Kezzie sat staring into space, back across the years, Cameron supposed. But when she spoke, it was not of Hugh Galloway.
“Did she say,” Mam asked tensely, “‘I’ll see you soon, Granny Kezzie’? Did she finish her letter that way?”
“No, Mam. She finished it, ‘Love always.’”
“Then,” Kezzie said, and the tears started down the withered cheeks, “I’ll never see my angel girl again. And what’s more—you’ll never see her. Mary will never see her. . . .”
“Perhaps she’ll come yet,” Cameron said, trying to comfort his grandmother. “No doubt she’ll inherit everything, including this place—”
“She doesn’t even know about this place.”
“But she will. And it may give her an excuse to come . . . perhaps to sell it.”
But it was meager comfort. Cameron knew as well as Mam that Winfield Craven, known by letter better than Margo could have imagined, would not spend his time and energy and interest on a small Galloway holding in a place far away, reached only by many days of miserable travel, and with only rude accommodations upon arriving.
No, Kezzie was right to loose forever her dream of yet sharing something of life with Margaret Galloway . . . Margo. Seeing the sad acceptance of it in Kezzie’s drooping shoulders and dropped head, Cameron knelt beside her chair, took her hand in his, and once again urged, lovingly, “Mam, don’t you see how much you need Jesus? Only He can comfort your heart. Why, Mam, why won’t you pray with me?” Cameron had long ago faced the possibility of his precious Mam’s death and had tossed reluctance and hesitation to the winds. There was no time to lose, and there was eternity to win, an eternity with the Lord. And so he lovingly and faithfully pressed on Kezzie, again, the claims of Christ.
And, again, he saw the dear face stiffen, saw the blue eyes close, as if in pain, understood the wordless shake of the frizzled gray head.
With his arms around her, Cameron offered up one more prayer for the salvation of his grandmother. “Whatever the means, Lord,” he prayed silently, “bring her to yourself.”
Cold the atmosphere in which Margo came to herself after her collapse in her father’s study. Cold, cold the eyes of Winfield Craven.
In fact, those eyes had brought it all back with a rush—the reading of the will, the stunning bequest of little or nothing to herself, the entire estate to Wallace. Her plummet into darkness had been marked by the cold eyes of Winfield. Furious eyes. Now that she was awake and aware, the face seemed less furious, but the eyes remained as cold.
Needing him so much, Margo reached a hand, beseechingly, toward him. It was taken and held, after a moment, by Dauphine.
“You’ve given us such a fright.” The usual stern countenance of the housekeeper was softened by concern. Casper was closing the door on the other servants who had, apparently, stood around helplessly until life and color surged back into the pale cheeks of their mistress. And yet not their mistress.
With consciousness came remembrance: Heatherstone—handed over to Wallace. Margo’s eyes flew to Winfield. What she saw there was as clear to her as though it were spelled out: Margo the pauper was not nearly as attractive as Margo the heiress.
“It was the shock,” Dauphine was saying. Fletcher Wren, hovering in the background, had the grace to look ashamed, as the means by which the shock had come. He shuffled his papers, looked around blankly, and seemed relieved when Casper appeared with his hat, coat, and umbrella.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he mumbled in Margo’s direction. “If I can be of help . . . perhaps explain. . . .”
Margo made no response, but her closed eyes may have spoken for her. Fletcher Wren made a hasty retreat and, one felt, closed the door gladly behind him.
“Help me up,” Margo managed, and Dauphine did so.
“Sit here, Miss,” the housekeeper advised, leading a trembling Margo toward a comfortable chair at the side of the fireplace. “Or do you feel up to the climb to your room?”
“Not yet,” Margo said, and anyone who knew her would have noticed the set to her shoulders and the resolute tone of her voice. There was no use putting off what had to be done. “You may leave us,” Margo continued. “I’ll call you when I need you.”
Casper offered a rug, which Dauphine tucked around Margo; then, with grim glances at Winfield, who stood at the window looking out at goodness knew what, the housekeeper and butler left the room.
“Winfield.”
Slowly the man turned; reluctantly his eyes met Margo’s.
“Yes.” No hyperbole now. No passion of eye or suggestion of tone. Not even the pretense of his former avowed devotion, and for that Margo was grateful. It made it much easier to do what needed to be done.
If she hadn’t felt so ill, she might have played with him a little. “Winfield,” she might have said, “darling. After all, we have our love. Surely that’s all that matters.”
She wasn’t prepared to say it, wasn’t prepared to deal with Winfield’s stumbling escape from bonds that were now obviously odious to him. And unnecessary.
So she said, quietly, “In view of my uncertain plans, Winfield, I think it’s best that I be free.”
Having said it, she was surprised how true it was and what relief it gave her. Her future might be uncertain, but it certainly didn’t include an alliance with Winfield Craven. In spite of sorrow over her father’s death, in spite of the shocking news of Wallace’s inheriting, in spite of her own bleak hopes, she felt a surge of relief that made her almost giddy again.
“Yes, yes. Of course. I fully understand.” Even as he spoke, Winfield was moving toward the ring Margo had taken from her finger and was holding out to him. As it dropped from her hand to his, so easily, so finally, a riffle of hysteria broke the surface of her calm. Hearing the sound, Winfield’s handsome face flushed, then darkened. Pocketing the ring, he spun on his heel and made for the door.
“I wish you good day, Madam,” he said stiffly, “and good luck.”
“And,” Margo couldn’t help but respond quietly, “better luck to you.”
At Margo’s express wish and with Fletcher Wren’s approval, the staff stayed on. All except Bailey, Hugh Galloway’s personal attendant, who, with his pocketed inheritance, made his quick way back to his home in England.
But life at Heatherstone was at a standstill. After years of Hugh Galloway’s vital presence, after his months of illness and death, after plans and preparations for a wedding, Heatherstone seemed in a vacuum where the days and weeks slipped by, one much the same as another.
Margo, with distaste, disposed of the wardrobe she had accumulated with Winfield’s suggestions and guidance, walked each day in the nearby park, read a great deal, and waited. Waited for she knew not what. Waited for healing, perhaps; waited for comprehension of the incomprehensible will and its revelation; no money . . . no future, except through Wallace’s gratuity . . . no Heatherstone.
To be deprived of father, lover, and home in one moment—it was almost too hard to grasp. Eventually Margo came to grips, or tried to, with the most puzzling part of all: the bequest of a “small holding” in Bliss. Why would her father leave this remote property to her? No sensible reason presented itself to her except that Kezzie was there. Perhaps, anticipating her bewilderment, her father had added that cryptic sentence, “for reasons she may ascertain should she care to do so,” with something in mind. But what? She cared, almost frenziedly, to understand, to be able to solve the staggering mystery. And why, she eventually wondered, did her father say the Galloway estate was to be left in Galloway hands? Weren’t her hands Galloway hands?
Slowly, in her thinking, Heatherstone and all the Galloway resources slipped away. They were no longer hers. What was hers was a miserable piece of bushland.
There came a day when Fletcher Wren stopped by to report that he had heard from Wallace Galloway and that the new heir was on his way to take up residence in Heatherstone, Canada, and would, in fact, be here within the mont
h.
Consulting with Dauphine, Margo saw to it a suite of rooms was prepared for the new owner. Cook, alerted to Wallace’s arrival, searched out her best Scots recipes. Casper, quieter than usual, saw to the grounds, the stables, and much more. All was in readiness.
On the appointed day Margo dressed as usual, without extra care or adornment. Remembering Wallace as she did, she actually felt supremely casual, almost disdainful, toward him, and would put on no display to impress him. Older now, more sure of herself, she felt confident of her ability to handle him should she be required to do so.
Waiting in the drawing room, Margo heard the low voices at the door as the men entered, as Fletcher Wren spoke briefly and left. She heard footsteps as Casper and Wallace approached the drawing room with its open door. Turning casually from her position at the fireside, Margo was agreeably surprised by her first glimpse of her cousin. There was a definite improvement—growth, school, and time itself, had all had a part in it.
Wallace strode directly toward the girl—woman—he hadn’t seen since she was thirteen, seven years prior. Well dressed as he was, even impeccably so, his clothes fitting his tall, thin frame perfectly, he clearly embodied the assurance that wealth and position bring.
The pimples were gone, but the face was unhealthy in color; perhaps it was the lighting. He was clean-shaven, the mode at the time, and Margo had the momentary thought that here was one man who would have benefited from a beard. She hadn’t time to think further; Wallace was bending gracefully over her hand. In spite of herself, Margo felt a surge of relief, for in her memory clear and sharp remained the frightening nip on the ear made by the boy Wallace years ago.
If Wallace remembered, he made no mention of it. Rather, he greeted her with “Cousin Margaret. How good to see you.”
Margo murmured a response, happy that he had released her hand; his hand, slender and white, was moister than she cared to encounter.
“Welcome, Wallace, to Heatherstone. It’s your home now, of course.”
Wallace glanced around approvingly. “It’s like home—that is, Scotland—and yet it isn’t. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. And you, too, cousin. Let me make it clear, right from the beginning, this is your home, too.”
Margo had to appreciate the announcement, while regretting that it was necessary.
The tea cart was ushered in by a maid who glanced at her new master with curious eyes, bowed briefly, and retired. Margo was happy for the distraction, seating herself at the tea cart while Wallace took a chair opposite and stretched out his long legs and appeared to make himself at home.
“You do that well,” Wallace said with a smile. “Like one to the manor born, of course.”
In spite of herself, Margo flushed. Wallace agreeable, Wallace mannerly, Wallace self-assured she was unprepared for.
“Yes, cousin,” Wallace was continuing, “we shall do beautifully together, I’m sure.”
Margo felt herself relax; she had been more tense than she knew. Here was a civilized man, a man of good breeding.
“Well, of course,” she said, “I was my father’s hostess for several years, ever since my mother’s death, of course.”
“And you shall be mine,” Wallace said gallantly.
“Milk?” Margo asked. “Sugar?”
“Just a little sweetness,” Wallace said, leaning forward. His tapering fingers took the cup, and his eyes, close now, looked straight into Margo’s momentarily as his knee, in its fine worsted, came into contact with her knee and stayed just a moment too long. Stayed a moment too long, and with too much pressure. “Yes, a little sweetness will do just fine,” he said.
Leaning back and crossing his elegant knees, Wallace smiled and said smoothly, “I think we shall rub along together very well.”
Picking up her cup, Margaret heard herself saying, with just the proper amount of surprise, “Why, didn’t you know? I shan’t be here.”
“Not be here?” Wallace sat up straight, his tea slopping.
“No. My father left his Saskatchewan property to me, and I shall be leaving directly for the Territories.”
Molly tossed her hat aside, ran a free hand through her springing black hair, and felt it lift and blow free in the breeze caused by the increase in the horse’s gait. With her other hand, she jockeyed the reins, urging speed from the surprised mare.
Not that there was any need to hurry. But life, to Molly Morrison, was a joy to be experienced, and she faced it head on, eager and fresh and tending to be impatient with caution and deliberation.
But Parker Jones was deliberate, if not cautious. The young minister was undoubtedly still feeling his way in this, his first pastorate, learning as he went. But where things of the heart were concerned, Molly felt there should be free rein, a glad embrace, not the earnest thoughtfulness that Parker Jones exhibited!
Having made up her own mind—where love and marriage and Parker Jones were concerned, and with a nature that tended toward impulsiveness—Molly was submitting to some hard lessons.
I know he loves me—I can tell, Molly thought now, and it was such a happy thought and sent such a surge of pure joy through her vibrant young body that she laughed aloud, and the trill equaled the spring birdsong for joy. There was no one to hear, and the mare, trotting at a clip to keep pace with her mistress’s heartbeat, flicked her ears and quickened her step.
Then, realizing that hurrying wouldn’t bring a faster resolution to her frustrated love life, and settling for it, Molly accepted that Parker Jones must be allowed his own time and way in what was obviously a matter for serious consideration to him. She grimaced and resigned herself to more patient waiting.
“Do you think,” Parker Jones had asked just last week, strolling on a Sunday afternoon, relaxed after delivering his sermon, and content after a good meal with Molly and her family, “that you could settle for the life of a pastor’s wife?”
Settle into it, he means, Molly supposed, knowing herself well. Would it mean wearing her hair in a bun? If so, forget it! Her riotous curls might be tied back and pinned down, but be obedient to decorum? Never. Dress soberly? Watch what she said? Molly sighed, even now biting her tongue and stifling the impetuous response that surged in her thoughts, eager to be voiced.
Could she settle for it? Molly knew she could. Any price—to be the wife of Parker Jones! Seriously though, Molly felt honestly—and prayerfully, having taken this important matter to the Lord many times—that not only could she take on the role required of her if she married Parker Jones, but she could also feel a sense of the rightness of it . . . feel fulfilled, even as did Parker.
Passing the woodsy acreage on which the small log “parsonage” had been built—land donated for that purpose by her own father from his own homestead—Molly cautioned herself not to fly in at the gate, which was her natural impulse. No, she had already embarked on the pathway to self-control and maturity, which would be her lot should she indeed win Parker Jones. A hard path, for Molly Morrison, but one that would make a woman of the girl, a wise woman of the unformed girl; a loving, giving, caring, serving woman whose spontaneity would never be completely dimmed and whose bright outlook would never fade, no matter the hardship or trial.
No, she wouldn’t automatically turn in, but if Parker Jones should beckon. . . .
Sadly, Parker’s buggy was gone from the yard. Making calls, no doubt . . . perhaps on Grandmam. Molly had, on more than one occasion, shared her burden for the salvation of her Mam with Parker Jones. And more than once he had stopped by the Bliss place, to share a cup of tea and an oat cake, and to—cautiously, Molly supposed—introduce the subject of Jesus Christ and His love.
“You’ll have to be—” Molly had wanted to say “pushy,” but knowing Parker Jones and her own anxiety to see Mam saved soon in the face of her old age and declining health, she had substituted “persistent.”
“You won’t hurt her feelings,” Molly had assured her friend and pastor. “We’ve all been very earnest with Mam . . . we can�
��t bear to think that she might . . . might die, and not be ready. We couldn’t bear an eternal separation.” And Molly’s eyes had filled with tears that spoke more eloquently than her words.
But Parker Jones’s buggy was not at the Bliss . . . Galloway place. Molly could hear Cameron whistling somewhere in the dark depths of the barn as she reined to a halt and, with her usual zest for life, tumbled from the buggy. Going to the back of the rig, she gathered up the mail and the box of supplies she had picked up for her granny and her brother and turned to the house.
Kezzie stood in the open doorway, obviously enjoying the spring weather and the hint of lilacs from the bush budding at the corner of the house. She opened the screen door, relieved the burdened girl of the mail, and returned with it to her rocking chair.
Molly stretched her young body, her arms over her head, once again gathering up her hair into some semblance of order. Kezzie’s head of frizz, duplicated in her daughter Mary even to its original color—red—was tamed to a tight curl in her granddaughter and black as a crow’s wing, like Angus’s. Molly’s eyes were the same blue as her grandmother’s, but in her the sparkle had not faded, nor the dance slowed. Had Kezzie, Molly sometimes wondered, subservient and loaded with responsibility all her life, ever been free to sparkle and dance? She, Molly, was so blessed! Not remembering the old home and the old ways, still she counted herself fortunate to be free . . . to be all that she could be. That women were still severely hampered in many ways was not a serious drawback to Molly. Rarely had she been thwarted; instructed, guided, trained—yes, but always free. The word, so important to her father, rang in her heart. Free from bondage, in this new and brave land; free, in Christ, from the bondage of sin. Molly Morrison was a liberated woman!
But Mam, darling Mam, whom she had missed knowing for the first half of her life, was certainly bound by . . . something. Free to be free, the only freedom she knew was from the old bonds of servant and master where this world’s values were concerned. She still went in bitter bondage where her soul was concerned, a source of sorrow to her loved ones.
