Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  “We’ll leave the door ajar,” Thelma Bell said judiciously, “and that should silence criticism. I just want to see for myself that you’re getting along all right. After all,” she said playfully, “you are the church’s responsibility, you know. And let it never be said that Thelma Bell didn’t do her share of carrying the load.”

  Who was she! The wife of an elder? Chairwoman of a committee designated to see to his well-being?

  At least he knew her name. “Will you have a seat, Mrs. Bell—”

  “Widow Bell,” she said, with a sigh of the proper magnitude. “But that was six months ago.” Her tone managed to convey the fact that she was fully recovered from her loss. “Now where would you like me to put—”

  The inevitable had happened; her gaze had gone directly to the box overflowing with a vast supply of squash.

  “I declare!” she muttered. “Why in the world didn’t you say so!”

  If Ben found it difficult to know what to say before, he was stricken dumb now. His mouth, he was sure, must be opening and closing like a fish’s.

  With a “Hmmmph!” she gathered up her offering and stumped out of the house.

  “Maybe,” he called after her desperately, “it could be canned.”

  “You don’t can squash, Reverend!”

  Ben Brown watched miserably from the doorway as Widow Bell flung her rejected vegetables into the buggy and followed them, as stiff as a poker if such a thing were possible when climbing into a tipping buggy.

  After casting one dark look at the innocent box of squash, he returned to his studies.

  Perhaps, he thought, in view of the many visitors he was receiving and the numerous invitations they extended, he should change his message to something other than Paul’s warmly expressed desire to visit the Romans: “For I long to see you . . . that I may be comforted together with you by the mutual faith both of you and me” (Rom. 1:11a, 12). It had seemed an apt and timely thought as he and his congregation got to know one another.

  But, he admitted now, the good people of Bliss needed no goad toward friendliness, no prompting toward hospitality; their invitations had been abundant.

  That some of their interest in him was due to his state of bachelorhood he hadn’t as yet suspicioned. “Unto the pure all things are pure” (Titus 1:15), another worthy statement by the apostle Paul, was true for Ben Brown and his innocence where the threatened female onset was concerned.

  Innocent he may have been, but he was not stupid. And so, when another knock came and he opened the door and looked down into the upturned faces of two young women, understanding filtered through, though he scorned to give it much attention and certainly no permission.

  At first there was silence—one girl was looking at him expectantly; the other wouldn’t meet his eye. Ben took a deep breath, about to plunge into greeting unknown personages once again and doing it with diplomacy and tact, if possible. Thank goodness there didn’t seem to be any squash in sight.

  “Good morning,” he said, supposing it was acceptable, if inadequate.

  It was obvious the older of the two, a young woman, wasn’t about to speak. Her face, in fact, looked mutinous. The other girl, younger and still childlike and shapeless, piped up, “We’re the Dinwoody sisters—she’s Eliza and I’m Victoria.”

  Ah, yes, the Dinwoody sisters. Daughters of Elder Adonijah Dinwoody. Standing expectantly on his doorstep. After the way Thelma Bell had so recently pointed out the poor taste of a female entering his male quarters unattended, Ben hesitated, not quite certain how to proceed.

  The dreaded silence followed. Ben shifted his weight, cleared his throat, feeling his youth and his lack of experience keenly.

  “Liza,” Victoria hissed, nudging Eliza, who ignored her, having turned her attention to some distant bird on the wing across the yard. She followed its progress as though truly interested in its plan and purpose.

  Victoria squirmed, turned red, and finally burst out with an invitation. “Papa . . . that is, Mama wants to know if you’ll come for supper tonight.”

  She looked hopefully at him while Eliza, chin lifted, stared after a disappeared sparrow. But the stumbled words had revealed the true situation, the true source of the invitation: the Elder himself.

  In the few weeks Ben Brown had been in Bliss, Brother Dinwoody had managed numerous innocent comments concerning the attributes of his daughter Eliza, of marriageable age. Now here she was, on display and the bearer of his invitation. And obviously not happy about it.

  “Tonight?” the pastor repeated slowly, and Victoria nodded, again nudging her sister, whose expression never changed but remained cool and distant; clearly she was not happy with the situation.

  “Tonight,” Ben Brown explained with relief, “I have an invitation to eat with the Condons. Thank your father for me. And your mother,” he added hastily.

  “Eliza—” Victoria spoke crossly now, obviously tired of the responsibility of talking to their new preacher.

  Eliza Dinwoody turned large, violet eyes on him, and with a look that could only be interpreted as reluctant, asked, “Tomorrow then?”

  “Tomorrow,” Ben stumbled, having no ready excuse. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

  The girls turned as one, stepped off the porch, and marched toward the road.

  “Eliza!” On an impulse Ben called after them; they paused and the older girl turned. Raising his voice a little, Ben asked, “Would you mind coming back for a moment, Eliza?”

  With only a brief hesitation the young woman walked woodenly back to him. Victoria stayed where she was as she supposed she should.

  Ben Brown stifled a smile at Eliza Dinwoody’s coldness; laughter would not be the best medicine at the moment.

  “Eliza—” Ben said, looking at the closed expression, the tightened lips; here was one female who wasn’t interested in the new pastor as husband material.

  “Well?” she asked shortly.

  “Would you rather I didn’t come?” he asked.

  The girl’s face flamed. She was embarrassed; she was, possibly, ashamed.

  “I won’t, you know, if you’d rather I didn’t,” Ben said kindly. “There’s no reason for me to come. No reason. None at all,” he repeated.

  Eliza raised her eyes to his. “It’s Lars, you see,” she muttered, tears very near the surface, held back by anger. “It’s because of Lars Jurgenson.”

  And it was enough; her meaning was clear.

  “Lars,” Ben repeated, searching his memory and coming up with a picture of an energetic, rollicking sort of young man, blond, blue-eyed, full of life and laughter. “I see. And does Lars feel about you as you do about him?”

  “Yes. But Papa; Papa—”

  “I’m sure,” Ben explained, “he believes he has your good at heart.”

  “I know that; he just cares too much! I’m old enough to make up my own mind! But Papa . . . Papa just drives me crazy! He’d make all my . . . our . . . decisions for us, if we’d let him. Fusspot!”

  Ben threw back his head and laughed at her description of the fussy little man he knew as Brother Dinwoody. Eliza’s threatened tears disappeared as she joined in.

  “Perhaps,” the pastor suggested at last, “when he finds out I’m not a possibility, he’ll be willing to settle for Lars.”

  “Oh, thank you!” the girl breathed, her relief obvious. “And, and do come, Brother Brown. Do come tomorrow. I think,” she said with an open face and true smile at last, “I’ll enjoy it. Really enjoy it.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  “Settled,” she affirmed and walked to join her sister with a lightened step and, no doubt, a lightened heart.

  Abandoning the sermon on visiting and having fellowship, Ben, new at sermonizing and searching his textbooks and theological tomes for another topic, settled on “Hypocrisies and Encouragements,” Paul’s warning to his disciples about the Pharisees. And wondered why, when Sunday morning came and he read his text, a ripple stirred through the congregation. And
why Brother Dinwoody sank in his seat until only the top of his thinning hair showed.

  “Whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear . . . shall be proclaimed upon the housetops” (Luke 12:3).

  It’s beautiful . . . so green! The birds! The sky!” Allison was captivated by the bush after the long and barren trek through the prairie. “And it’s full of berries, I suppose—”

  “There are berries,” Angus confirmed, seeing through her eyes the beauty of the bush as he did at the first, before its crushing workload settled on him, never to leave nor lighten. “Berries of one sort or another during the spring and summer, hazelnuts in the fall. But it’s the poplars we benefit from the most, I suppose—logs for building, wood for burning. What we clear from our land goes right back into the homestead one way or another. But,” he said, knowing full well from experience, “we’re talking about the good weather. Winter is another matter. These friends of yours, the Abrahams, will be working night and day to be ready for it.”

  “I can help,” Allison said, but without the conviction she would have liked. Help—when her lily-white hands had never so much as washed a dish? Help—when her gardening experience had been limited to snipping flowers for the house?

  Help—when her garments had been whisked away as soon as she disrobed, to be hung up by another, or washed, dried, and ironed before she saw them again, and all without any effort on her part? Help—when she had never so much as scrubbed a potato in her life, let alone boil it or mash it or cream it or scallop it or whatever else they do with potatoes?

  “I’m terribly ignorant, I’m afraid,” she admitted in a small voice. Playing the piano a little, singing a little, playing cards, serving tea—these graces seemed the most inconsequential of achievements when compared with milking cows, churning butter, baking bread, canning.

  “But you’re young, and you’re healthy!” Angus said. “And you can learn. Many of us have had to do that; many of us are still doing that. That cream I left back there—I had never in my life collected cream, nor had I ever imagined living from its proceeds until the crop, good or bad, was harvested. We do what we have to do to survive; it becomes the source of our happiness, yielding enormous satisfaction. We learn to enjoy the little things—the first crocus in the spring, a new calf, fresh bread from our own grist, sunsets more glorious than any canvas in a king’s palace—all for free.”

  Angus, in his rich Scot’s burr, spoke eloquently and even passionately.

  Allison recognized that here was a man of quality, probably well educated, yet a man who had forsaken everything he had known for the uncertain success of a Canadian homestead.

  “These friends of yours,” Angus said, “may be happy to have an extra pair of hands. You dinna know where their homestead is located, I take it.”

  “No,” Allison admitted. “They just called out to me as they were leaving, separated from me by the crowd and the noise, and spoke the word ‘Bliss.’ We’ll be in Bliss, my friend said, and though at first I thought she was describing her happiness, I knew it was a real place when she added that it was in Saskatchewan. Her last words urged me to keep in touch. I felt she really cared . . .”

  Allison’s voice trailed off. This fine man, this gentleman, knew nothing of her remittance girl status and would not. Born again, the child of the King, starting over in all ways, still Allison found herself ashamed of the remittance girl status.

  She hadn’t been in Canada long when she realized that many people strongly disliked remittance men. Educated but fit for nothing; ignorant of clearing land and farming, engaged in nothing productive, they were held in contempt. Having money and spending it foolishly when other immigrants lived on porridge and rabbits, they were envied even as they were despised. Staying to themselves, not taking part in Canadian society, they were unpopular. Their foolish behavior made them the butt of jokes; their uselessness was sneered at.

  The fact that their culture would eventually have some good effect on the raw land was not yet foreseen. The fact that a few of them would forsake hunting and fishing and idleness for ranching and farming or other lucrative work had not yet become obvious. No, remittance men . . . and a remittance girl if there happened to be such a sorry creature . . . were not people to admire.

  She realized that Angus Morrison and others, as she came to know them, would wonder what she, a girl and unchaperoned, was doing in the backwoods of Canada. A full explanation would be due Georgina and David; others would have to wonder. She could not, would not, admit to being a member of that graceless and feckless group—the remittance outcasts.

  If Angus wondered about her hesitation to explain further, he said nothing. The West held many secrets, some better left that way.

  Angus made the wise decision to ask about the Abrahams at the Bliss store. The general store supplied more than sugar and tea, nails and whitewash. It was the headquarters for news, the center for information both told and heard. It was as good as, or better than, a daily newspaper, some declared. No one wanted to drive ten miles to the store and ten miles back home and not have tidbits to share around the supper table with a family starved in more ways than one. Who in the district, for instance, had given up and moved away; who had been born; who had died or was likely to; who had married or was getting ready to, and much more.

  And sure enough, the storekeeper, who was also the postmaster, knew exactly where the Abrahams had located.

  “They’ve taken over the Mikovic place,” he said in response to Angus’s inquiry. “And you know where that is . . . just beyond Big Tiny’s.”

  The Mikovic story had been a sad one, Angus told Allison as they moved on. “They were not prepared for the hardships,” he said. “Not by any means. For one thing, they settled for living in a dugout—”

  “Dugout?”

  “Just a room scooped out of the side of a hill, dirt on three sides, logs or lumber across the front, and in this instance, not a single window in it. They were absolutely without funds when they arrived, but even so, they might have made it if they’d had a decent place to live. Winter in that dugout must have been like living in a rabbit hole. Mrs. Mikovic, I’m told, went mad. Raving mad. And who can blame her. We blame ourselves, in a way. Mary and I could have taken them in, made room for them until spring, if we’d known. But Mr. Mikovic put his wife on a sled and pulled out in a snowstorm, he was that desperate. We never heard,” Angus said, shaking his head, “if they made it. At any rate, they lost the place.”

  In spite of the warmth of the day, Allison shivered. The beauty of the bush—it was deceptive. The dream—how quickly it could become a nightmare.

  “Mary will be wondering where I am,” Angus said, “and it’s just aboot chore time. Would you consider staying the night with us, lass, and going on in the morning?”

  And when Allison saw the snug home and met the gracious Mary and the sweet grandmother, Mam, who lived with them, her hesitation faded and she accepted the invitation happily. The supper was wholesome, the bath welcome, the bed comfortable. Allison sank into it and into sleep as though settling into sheer bliss. Small amenities, small blessings, loomed large in the bush.

  It was Mary, after all, who took Allison the remainder of the way in the morning; Angus, having been away one day, was pressured by the work awaiting his attention. Allison thanked him warmly for his care of her and his goodness.

  “I don’t know what I would have done,” she said. “You made it into a pleasant experience. It was the first day I haven’t been anxious for a long, long time. I think my heavenly Father had it planned—that you’d be there to help me. Do you believe in things like that?”

  She knew he did when, at the close of the morning meal, Angus bowed his head and prayed. It was the prayer of someone on intimate terms with his God.

  Strengthened, body and soul, Allison climbed into the buggy with Mary and drove off through the dewy morning down narrow roads through pressing greenery, serenade
d by choirs of birds. Passing an occasional cabin or house where someone pulled back a curtain and waved, they jogged along, talking comfortably together, until they pulled into a small opening in the bush, and Mary said, “This, I believe, is the Mikovic place, or was.”

  The first thing Allison noticed was the smoke lifting from a stovepipe that seemed to be set directly into the hillside. The dugout.

  If Allison had entertained any doubts about her welcome, they were laid to rest in those first few minutes.

  As a dog barked a friendly greeting and the buggy creaked to a halt, a woman . . . girl . . . stepped from the dugout. At first Allison was unable to see the girl’s face because she was bending her head to accommodate the low doorway, but as she raised it, Allison recognized her—Georgina!

  Blinking against the morning light, Georgina took a moment to adjust her vision and another moment to accept what it told her: It was her shipboard acquaintance, often thought of, regularly prayed for—Allie Middleton.

  With a glad cry Georgina was across the yard, stumbling over the dog, regaining her footing, flying to the side of the buggy.

  Allison, having been unsure and uncertain—whether this was the right place, whether she would be welcome—tumbled from the buggy into the arms that were reaching for her. At long last her protective armor, having held her upright for so long and for so great a distance, shattered, fell, and was trampled underfoot as the girls embraced. Tears of relief and fulfillment ran down each pair of cheeks—Allison’s thin, pale from travel and injury, Georgina’s thin, brown from long hours of work in the Saskatchewan sun.

  When Mary Morrison was confident that all was well, that Allison was in good hands and it was safe to leave, she turned back home. But not before she met Georgina and David, who came hurrying from the area of a small sod barn to add his welcome and to lift Allison’s portmanteau from the buggy. Allison’s steamer trunk, held in abeyance at the Morrison home, could be brought later.

  But rather than taking the traveling bag to the dugout, David placed it inside a tent, which Allison, in the excitement of the first few moments and with so much to see, had not noticed.