With Love from Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #2) (15 page)

Here was a man who had started out, independently, when he was not much older than Dudley. Just a boy himself at the time, Dudley could recall something of those days—his father’s offered friendship and help and the good relationship that had developed. He had seen the young Connor strengthen and mature until he became a man of stature, not only physically but in other ways that counted, ways that couldn’t be spelled out but that made him a man in the eyes of the community. No doubt, Dudley supposed now, half bitterly, Connor was a man in his own eyes. And that’s where it counts most, Dudley thought with a burst of insight into his own sad self-evaluation.
Weighed in the balances and found wanting!

“Come on in, Dudley.”

Connor’s voice greeted Dudley as he stepped up onto the small porch outside the screen door of the lean-to that was Connor’s kitchen. The original log house, at first serving as front room, bedroom, and kitchen combined, had been enlarged by the addition of the lean-to; the main room, now divided, with a small bedroom at one end, made comfortable living quarters for the bachelor.

How Connor Dougal had stayed single was a mystery. Thick, brown hair hanging rather boyishly over clear hazel eyes, generous nose, and square-cut, good-humored face made for a very attractive package. Add to this his homestead proved up as required and his farm well stocked, he lacked only—according to the community—a wife.

But Dudley was far from any thoughts concerning the bachelor state of his neighbor. He had found, in the last few days, a level of friendship from this man that he hadn’t known before. Now, instinctively, as a chick would seek refuge under a wing, Dudley turned toward Connor. There was something that drew him—just what, he couldn’t put a name to. He wasn’t long in finding out.

Dudley had known that Connor attended church regularly. He knew Connor was a man of principle. He now knew him to be a man of compassion. He would almost immediately know him to be a man of God.

Connor had been drinking a cup of coffee over a late supper. “Sit down, man,” he said right off to the young man who seemed to stand so awkwardly inside his door. “Sorry the flapjacks are all gone, but there’s coffee.”

Dudley took the mug, added the cream and sugar that were proffered, and took a seat opposite Connor at the table. Leaning an elbow comfortably on the white oilcloth, Connor said, “It’s good to see you. I was hoping you’d come by.” At Dudley’s raised eyebrow he added, “I hadn’t had an opportunity to talk with you, to tell you how sorry I am for the loss of your father. A good man—Henley Baldwin. You’re a lot like him, I think, and,” with a smile, “that’s a compliment.”

“Yeah . . . I guess,” Dudley murmured in a low tone of voice, looking down into the mix of coffee and cream. “That’s what everyone says. Even Ma.” Dudley didn’t add that when Della said it, it was no compliment.

“How’re you making out?”

“All right, I guess.” Dudley, it seemed, wasn’t certain of anything.

Connor studied the young, defenseless, rather doleful countenance of his visitor. “If not, Dudley, and there’s some way I can help, you’ve only to ask.”

“I know.”

Dudley continued to stare into his cup; Connor stirred his coffee thoughtfully. This was something more than a casual visit, he surmised. Just how to approach an unspoken problem was a problem in itself.

Perhaps he offered up a silent prayer for guidance. At any rate, his next words were inspired, though they obviously pained the young man opposite.

“And how is it with Matilda? If I’m not mistaken, you two are something more than friends.”

Dudley shifted in his chair. Dudley cleared his throat. Dudley, after all, could only nod and mutter, “Yeah, well, I guess maybe that’s over.” There—he’d faced it! Said it!

“I see. Well, a bachelor’s life isn’t so bad, you know.” Connor smiled. Then, with no answering sign of amusement from Dudley, he added thoughtfully, “But if you’re unhappy, I could help you pray. I always find comfort that way.”

“Yeah, I guess that’d be all right,” the younger man said but without enthusiasm.

Connor set down his cup, bowed his head, cleared his throat, and prayed. To Dudley, staring down at a crack in the white oilcloth on the table, it was obvious the pray-er knew what he was doing. His words, though simple, were straightforward and earnest.

Connor prayed that Dudley, having lost his earthly father, might find comfort in the care of the heavenly Father; he prayed that, for the days ahead, Dudley might have the loving hand of the Father leading, guiding, and directing. He prayed that, as the Scripture promised, all things would work together for good.

If his keen eyes failed to find solace in the face of the object of his prayers when he concluded, he was wise enough to say only, “I’ll continue to pray for you, Dudley. I’m sure that God has a future for you, a good future, and that He’ll see you through to that fulfillment. Now, how about a warm-up on the coffee?”

Walking home through the thick night, Dudley was as much in the dark spiritually as physically. But he left behind one praying, believing man, and even then the first rays of promise were gathering. There would be a sunrise.

But there was no glimmer of it the following Sunday.

There was no staying home from church. Della, as rigid in her religious convictions as in all else, determined they should be there this first Sunday after Henley’s grim death. But even she avoided the double desk with the youthful lovers’ initials and took a place on the side bench.

As always, Dudley sat in the cloakroom, rather too silent and quiet, self-conscious under the quick, curious glances of his friends. He couldn’t blame them; tragedy and trauma made for difficult conversation. It would pass, with time, and his former relationship with the young folk of the community would go on as usual. Except in one instance.

Just before the opening hymn, while the pump organ was being played heartily and vigorously by Sally Dewhurst, through the open door came Bert Felker and Matilda Hooper. They were obviously in the final throes of a good laugh, shoving each other playfully as they separated, Bert to sit on the male side, Matilda to sit with the young women.

Matilda shot one straight and meaningful look at Dudley, which said as plain as words, “It’s over, see!” Thereafter, her eyes avoided meeting his stunned gaze.

It hadn’t taken Dudley completely by surprise; he had been half prepared for Matilda to explain, hopefully sadly and reluctantly, that they must part company . . . for the time being. But to flaunt Bert Felker in his face—it was rejection with a slap.

When Sunday dinner was over, Dudley picked up the latest pile of newspapers recently arrived from his uncle and, in spite of the disapproval on his mother’s face (“Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy”), made his way deliberately to the porch and the ancient rocking chair. There had to be an opening . . . an opportunity . . .
something . . . somewhere. . . .

A
re you doing your yawning exercises faithfully?” Aunt Charlotte asked, stopping by Franny’s room.

“Yes, but I think it’s a lot of . . . bunkum,” the usually gentle Frances said with uncharacteristic emphasis.

At the sound of a word that she considered coarse, Aunt Charlotte felt called upon to issue a reproachful reprimand, though she seemed halfhearted about it. So even though Franny was twenty-four years old and a model of propriety most of the time, Aunt Charlotte said automatically, “That’s not a word a lady would use.” Just the saying of it seemed to lift the aunt’s spirits, restoring, in a way, a semblance of normalcy where the frail young woman was concerned, and whom they so often treated as an invalid.

Aside from the pills and potions that had been prescribed for Franny by their doctor, friends and family came up with certain remedies from time to time, and most of them were tried, at Charlotte’s insistence. “This malingering must be halted,” she had said firmly, “and it will, just as soon as we locate the proper restorative.”

Consequently, Franny had suffered through:

Blood Pills, designed to cure nervous despondency, loss of memory, irritability of temper, locomotor ataxia, and much more;

Orange Wine Stomach Bitters, guaranteed to be “from the fruits of the Seville orange tree in combination with seventeen different roots and herbs,” and treating gastric ailments, want of appetite, low spirits and nervousness, general derangements, and purifying the blood, bones, muscles, and restoring vigor;

Microbe Killer, “one of the grandest remedies known to the present age,” for preventing la grippe, catarrh, consumption, malaria, blood poison, rheumatism, and killing the germs that are the cause of the disease.

In spite of these assurances and more, Franny continued wan and peaked, without energy or interest. It was Kerry, desperate for something to lift her dear friend out of the doldrums—mental, physical, emotional—into which she had sunk, who had come up with “Yawning for Exercise.”

“According to the results of late investigations,” she had reported one day, having just read all about it, “yawning is the most natural form of respiratory exercise. An eminent authority—unfortunately it doesn’t give his name—advances the theory that,” and Kerry found her place in
The Youth’s Companion,
and read, “‘everyone should have a good yawn, with stretching of the limbs, morning and evening, for the purpose of ventilating the lungs and strengthening the muscles of respiration.’”

“When I was a child,” said a doubtful Aunt Charlotte, ever the stickler for proper protocol, “children were taught that yawning was a breach of good behavior. Now, if this medical testimony may be credited, it is incumbent upon parents—and guardians!—to see that the youthful members of their flock,” and she smiled at Franny and Kerry indulgently, having come a
great deal along the path of tolerance in the last years, “not only yawn, but practice what may be called the art of yawning. Isn’t that the heart of the article, Kerry?”

“That’s it,” Kerry affirmed, looking at the invalid for her reaction.

“Wait a minute,” Franny objected, “you can’t just decide to yawn, can you? Don’t you have to be sleepy, or tired, or bored?”

“Apparently yawning can be practiced,” Kerry declared, “and therefore perfected.” And she fell to giving a demonstration.

“At least,” Aunt Charlotte said firmly, “cover your mouth when you do it.”

“‘I will lay mine hand upon my mouth,’” Kerry said, but under her breath so that Aunt Charlotte barely heard, but having heard, awaited the end of the quotation, the tip of her nose pinking only a little. “‘Once have I spoken; but I will not answer: yea, twice; but I will proceed no further.’”

“The day hasn’t dawned,” Aunt Charlotte proclaimed, “when you will not answer. What a day that will be!”

Kerry subsided, as she had learned to do long ago, only breaking over occasionally when Scripture seemed the only way to respond.

And so regular sessions of yawning and stretching had been instigated. “I can’t see any advantage to it,” Franny finally said fretfully. “And the only thing being stretched is my mouth!”

This called for a critical assessment of yawn therapy by Aunt Charlotte, who then advised, “One must yawn with one’s mouth strictly less than fully agape. The muscles it takes to
refrain
from the full-gape position should help affect the cure, I should think.”

But another week’s yawn experiments failed to lift the invalid from the malaise into which she had sunk.

Not to be defeated in her efforts to bring health and happiness back to Franny, Kerry brought in another magazine, reporting, “Here’s an endorsement for Ayer’s Sarsaparilla. ‘I was unable to sleep,’ this woman says. ‘I had serious trouble with my kidneys, and suffered greatly with pains in my back. I was also afflicted with headache, loss of appetite and indigestion. A friend persuaded me to use Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, and my troubles all disappeared.’ What do you say to that, Franny? You don’t sleep well, you don’t eat well, you have pains—”

“Only since I began the yawning cure!” Franny declared in no uncertain terms.

“Here, then,” Kerry said with a discouraged sigh, “you look these cures over and read the endorsements . . . maybe there’ll be something that will get your attention.” And Kerry left to go about other duties.