A Place Called Bliss (31 page)

It was from that position that the continuation of the story was heard.

Kezzie told how her Mr. Hugh, having glimpsed his son and being told he was dead, had watched silently while Kezzie, baldly and boldly, had laid Mary’s baby in Sophia’s arms.

“He went over and touched his bairn briefly and lightly,” Kezzie said, remembering that sad moment, “and let me prepare him for burial. I had to refer to the dead child as a girl; Angus knew his babe had been a girl. Mr. Hugh stood alone on the deck while his son was slid into the sea. His hat was off, his hair was blowin’ in the wind, and he looked so forlorn. But though I knew he knew, he never, ever, let on.”

Having made up his mind, apparently, that what Kezzie had in mind was acceptable, Hugh had never revealed the imposture to his wife. Often, Kezzie said, she would catch his eyes on Margaret, all across the years, with gentleness. Always he had been concerned for her, but with his ingrained inhibitions had never been able to show his feelings. His will, finally, had been his way of making amends.

“He insisted that I be allowed to stay on with the family at Heatherstone; often he stood up for our relationship, which did indeed exceed the usual ties of nurse and nursling. He always felt that he had done the best for you, lassie, by havin’ me there for you. And I had no hesitation about tightening every bond, though Sophia never understood. You were my own wee angel, and I gave you the love and attention you deserved. Always—” Kezzie’s voice broke—“I was aware that I had deprived you of your rightful family and them of you. The pain . . . at times, was almost more than I could bear. Havin’ done what I did, I had to live with it. Mary . . .”

Mary looked up at her Mam, then reached and took the hand held out beseechingly.

“She’s had a good raisin’, Mary, everything she could need or want. Except you. Oh, my own dear bairn . . . can you forgive me?”

Now daughter and granddaughter turned to the weeping, shaking figure on the bed. Embraces said what words need not.

“One thing more,” Kezzie said, when eyes were dried and rational talk was possible. “It’s Angus. Lassie . . . I couldna stand by and hear those untrue words about that guid mon. Angus, remember, doesn’t know even now . . . nor do Molly and Cameron.”

Kezzie was exhausted. Her pallor was such that Mary and Margo were alarmed.

“Here, Mam,” Mary said, “let me settle you comfortably for a little rest. You’re emotionally drained, and I don’t know whether you can stand much more of this. But it’s all over now—”

“Not yet, Mary. There’s more to be done. You’ve forgiven me—but God—”

Kezzie was weeping again, and these were the tears of a heart’s repentance for sin.

“This is why you haven’t asked God to forgive you, isn’t it?” Mary asked. “It was unmentionable, wasn’t it? And yet, Mam, God knew all along.”

“Aye, He knew. And I knew He knew. It’s been a sorry burden on my conscience. But how could I repent and keep on sinnin’, that is, livin’ a lie to y’ all? Nae, I couldna. I remember, Mary, a portion of Scripture one of you used one day when you were preachin’ at me—oh, yes, ye did that regularly, bless y’—and it was Paul preaching to the Gentiles that they should repent and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. Remember that verse, Mary? Do I have the meanin’ right?”

“Yes,” Mary said steadily, “it means to prove your repentance by your deeds.”

“And I couldna do that. I knew He wouldna save me if I continued on in my sin. But now, Mary . . . I need to be forgiven and shriven.”

Mary smiled at the old-fashioned word but saw her Mam’s earnestness.

“I have good news for you,” was what she said, but it was no news to Kezzie, who had had it explained to her many times across the years by one Morrison or the other. “The promise is, ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”

With a wavery but beatific smile on her face, Kezzie folded her hands, closed her eyes, and made her confession.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, humbly and sincerely, “I’m a sinner. I’m sorry . . . so sorry. Please forgive me and grant me eternal life with you. And now, I receive your Son, Jesus Christ, as my Savior. I confess Him as Lord, and I’ll follow Him and serve you, all the days of my life—any that you might see fit to allow me. Thank you, Father. Oh! Thank you, Father!”

What had begun solemnly enough ended with pure joy as the reality of the great transaction went from faith to fact.

Margo, listening with fascination, found herself, at first, following the momentous words along with Kezzie. Somewhere—about the place where she confessed Jesus as Lord and Savior—rote became reality, and when Kezzie was breathing her joyous “thank you,” a similar joy was welling up in Margo’s heart.

“Now,” Mary said tenderly, “we are all part of another family—the family of God.”

It was all too much . . . it was all too wonderful; Margo felt she could never contain the joy. What she felt, she saw reflected in Mary’s worn face, in Gran’s old face, and knew they shared the moment fully. To think of it! Never would she be lonely and alone again. Besides an earthly father, she had a heavenly Father, and He had pledged never to leave her nor forsake her, or so Mary was assuring her.

Cameron could stand it no longer.

“What’s going on in here?” he demanded, opening the door. No one needed to tell him of the spiritual transformation; their bright countenances spoke for themselves. It was the best news he could have had.

Of the other amazing development—Margo a member of the Morrison family—all three tried to tell at once.

The cows bawled their need of attention while Cameron ignored them and drove like Jehu to take word to Angus and Molly.

While Kezzie slept the sleep of exhaustion, her face peaceful and her heart light, the Morrison family went over the incredible story . . . again and again. Angus’s arms, often around his
two girls, were as a blessed haven to the one who had, so recently, declared her contempt of them.

“Mother,” Cameron asked, “is it possible you’ve forgiven Mam for what she did? I can’t imagine anything more painful—”

“I’ve wanted so much for Mam to give herself to the Lord, and I’ve prayed for that so many times. Here she was, asking God to forgive her, and I was struggling with this terrible . . . pain—almost a horror of unbelief for what she’d done—when I remembered what Jesus said. ‘If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you: but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.’ That settled it. He helped me to forgive her, fully and freely. I may never understand it, and I suppose I’ll always grieve over all the years we didn’t have our girl with us. But yes, I’ve forgiven Mam, and with God’s help will never let bitterness spoil this for me.”

Now there was time for Margo’s side, told simply and openly. Now was the time for comparing little fingers and laughing and crying. Now was the time for putting two curly black heads on each side of Angus’s curls and laughing and crying.

Finally, reluctantly, Cameron rose to answer the insistent demands of the milk-laden cows. Angus turned to accompany him, and Mary, Molly, and Margo turned as one person toward the kitchen and their need for sustenance. One more time, Margo put her arms around her loved ones.

“Just think,” she marveled, near tears again, “after all the years as an only child, I have a sister and . . .” though it brought a pang to her heart, she voiced it, “and a brother.”

Amid the smiles, Cameron drew back, the by-now familiar frown between his sunburnt brows, the by-now familiar word on his tongue:

“Whoa!”

The faces of the other four turned toward Cameron.

“What do you mean whoa?” Molly asked pertly.

“Her brother. She said I’m her brother. You heard her.”

“So?” Molly asked impatiently.

“I’m not her brother . . . never her brother.”

“We know that,” Molly said.

“But does she?”

“I . . . I don’t understand.” Margo’s face expressed her bewilderment. Her hand, clutching a chair back, expressed her alarm. Was one member of the family about to disown her? Hard as it was to even think that Cameron might be her brother, his rejection, for whatever reason, would be shattering.

Cameron was looking at Margo searchingly. “I don’t believe you know,” he said slowly. “And if not, it would answer so much—I’m not your brother, Margo,” he said. “I’m not Molly’s brother. I’m not a true-born son of Angus and Mary.”

“Not . . . not a Morrison?” Margo asked stupidly.

“Oh, I’m a Morrison, all right. But two or three times removed from this branch. My father, a distant cousin, died on a fishing expedition, and my mother died when I was born. Angus and Mary took me in and raised me as their own. I thought everyone knew. Obviously,” he said, a certain light in his eyes, “you didn’t know.”

“No,” she said as steadily as she could considering that her breath was ragged in her throat, and her heart was thudding to an erratic beat.

Watching the wordless interchange, Molly whispered, “Well, what do you know!”

Angus, with a smile and a shrug, said, “I’ll tend to the cows, lad.” Not too old to be remembering the ways of young love, he added simply, “The horse and buggy are still at the door.”

Cameron held out his hand and Margo took it. Together they stepped out into the shadows of the northland’s long evening. And though her black and curly hair reached almost to his chin, “Come, wee Margo,” he said. “Come explore Bliss with me.”

Ruth Glover was born and raised in the Saskatchewan bush country of Canada. As a writer, she has contributed to dozens of publications such as
Decision
and
Home Life.
Ruth and her husband, Hal, a pastor, now live in Oregon.