by Glover, Ruth
When Kezzie could speak, she said clearly, “Call Cameron. I’ve got to talk to Cameron.”
“You won’t tell him!”
“Nae, I willna’ tell him.”
Cameron came from Kezzie’s presence to say simply, “She wants me to bring my mother over here.”
“Mary? Why, Cameron? Did she say why?”
“She says,” and the young man’s face was touched with a quiet wonder, “she’s ready to make peace with God. You don’t know, lass, how we’ve prayed for this time to come. It seemed there was an unbreakable barrier holding her back from the love God offers her. Oh, to think she’s ready to accept His great gift at last!” There was a spring in his step as he left.
Margo peeked in on Kezzie; her eyes were closed, perhaps she was asleep. Certainly she looked worn, growing more frail almost daily. I suppose, Margo thought, if one needed to make peace with God, one shouldn’t wait .
Peace! Did one need to die to obtain it? How about the living? Wasn’t there some balm for hearts like hers? Knowing the Morrisons, Margo could only conclude that yes, such peace was possible. A phrase from the Bible came to her from the days when a governess had religiously set a portion of Margo’s day for the reading of a Bible passage; Margo had been struck then by the scene it painted, and she recalled it now: “All thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.” That’s me , Margo cried, that’s me!
But wait! Dimly she remembered a fascinating story about how Jesus, in just such an overwhelming situation, had stood up in a little, tossing boat and commanded, “Peace, be still.” As a child Margo had thrilled to the glorious “Then He arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water; and they ceased, and there was a calm.”
Opening drawers and removing her effects and placing them in her trunk, Margo felt the troubled waves surging over and around. And true, the pressing greenery of the bush, in some respects, resembled the tossing sea. But where was Jesus when He was needed? And would Granny Kezzie, in what were possibly her final moments, come to experience His peace for herself?
The dog barked its welcome, and Margo heard the rattle of the buggy and the jingle of harness as Cameron and his mother drew up to the door. Believing this was a private, personal matter between a mother and her daughter, Margo continued her sorting and packing, though it was with reluctance and despair that each garment was readied for departure.
There was a tap at the door. “Margo,” Mary called, “Mam has asked that you join us.”
“Are you sure, Granny,” Margo asked, kneeling at the side of the bed, Mary on the other, “that I should be here? This praying . . . I don’t know much about it.”
“Perhaps y’ should, lass. Perhaps if I’d prayed wi’ y’ earlier . . . well, I didn’t, and I had my reasons.” Kezzie was propped into a half sitting position. Her white hair floated freely around the white face; the blue eyes, though fading, were set with determination.
“Mary, my own bairn, I’ve somethin’ to say to you. It must be said . . . though I had hoped to live and die withoot sayin’ it.”
“Must you, Mam? Must you?” Mary asked with entreaty in her voice. “I can see it’s all been too much for you. You know I love you . . . nothing can change that.”
“I must say it,” Kezzie continued, with a half sob in her old, quavery voice. “I must ask your forgiveness . . . and then, maybe . . . God’s.”
“Oh, Mam!” Mary couldn’t watch, couldn’t listen, without feeling her mother’s distress and weeping, too.
“I never thought to tell it,” Kezzie went on. “But now, if I don’t, wee Margo will go awa’ by hersel’—no Mam, no father, no mither, no one . . . and I canna bear it.”
Don’t tell , Margo felt the silent scream rising in her throat. “Don’t tell! Don’t ever tell her . . . about her husband . . . and my mother! I’ll go away! I’ll never breathe a word of it—”
Kezzie seemed to rally, to gain strength as she proceeded. The Scots seemed to fade from her speech, and her words were clear.
“I’ve done a terrible thing, an unforgivable thing, though I didn’t intend it to be a bad thing. At the time, I didn’t have time to think . . . I just acted automatically. It was on board ship . . . comin’ over.”
At the reminder Mary’s eyes darkened. “Ah, Mam—must you?”
Kezzie plowed on steadily as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “You, Mary, were in labor, terrible labor. You don’t remember all about it . . . you faded in and out of consciousness. The hours went on and on, down there in that crowded, foul place, ’til I was near to faintin’ from it all. At the same time, Mrs. Hugh went into labor too soon, having fallen down the ladder. Mr. Hugh wanted me with her; I needed to be with you. So I went back and forth.”
Mary’s head was bowed onto the hand she held as she kneeled at the bedside. Her tears flowed freely. Margo couldn’t help it; her own eyes teared up with sympathy and with love for the two women obviously living through a dreadful ordeal. The ordeal that had left her alive and taken Mary’s baby.
“Mr. Hugh sent the doctor down, insisted that he go. But he was ruthless . . . diggin’ into you with his dirty hands, haulin’ your poor wee bairn out regardless of life or death for either of you. I was there. I saw it all. You never knew any of it; you were as good as dead. In fact he pronounced you dead, wiped his hands on the bedding, and left. Angus and the bairns were kissin’ your hands and face, Angus was near to faintin’, and all the folks in the hold were silent, some weepin’ with us.”
“I know, Mam. I know all this; I’ve been told time and again. Please, let’s not live it all over again—the burial . . .”
“Hush, lass.” Kezzie’s voice was growing weaker, her face whiter, if that were possible. “You don’t know it all . . . you haven’t heard all of it. No one has, though Mr. Hugh knew the rest of the story. The only one to know the rest of the story.”
At the mention of her father’s name, Margo lifted her head and fixed her puzzled gaze on Kezzie’s face.
“Yes, Mr. Hugh knew, though he never mentioned it and no word of it ever passed between us. Still, he knew.”
“Knew?” Mary’s voice expressed bewilderment. “Mr. Hugh . . . knew?”
“I took your newborn bairn, wrapped it in something or other, and took it with me. I had to get back to Mrs. Hugh. And, Mary,” for the first time Kezzie’s eyes filled with tears, “remember—I thought you were dead. You had been pronounced dead. There was nothing more, at the moment, that I could do. And Mr. Hugh,” Kezzie’s slavish obedience to her Mr. Hugh had shaped her decision, “needed me, and expected me. He was stayin’ with his wife. I just had time to lay the bairn down when Mrs. Hugh began bearin’ down. Within minutes her bairn was born. Mr. Hugh was at her head, comfortin’ her, strokin’ her hair, and I took his wee one, wrapped it quickly, and laid it alongside the other babe. But not before Mr. Hugh saw it. Oh yes, he took a quick and smilin’ look at his first and only child. But oh, Mary—” Kezzie’s story broke on a sob, and it seemed she might not be able to continue. Margo reached to console her, but Mary—Mary was sitting back on her heels, still holding her mother’s hand, her eyes drying as she looked, startled, at her mother’s twisted face.
“The bairn—Mr. Hugh’s bairn—” Kezzie whispered, “was dead.”
“What . . . what are you saying?” Mary asked, tense now.
“I had a split moment to think, Mary. You were dead, your babe lived. Mr. Hugh lived, his babe was dead. Loving him as I did . . . and loving the babe—”
In a flash Margo saw it all: Kezzie’s love could no more have been denied her than a fish could live out of water. She, Margo, was born to Kezzie’s love.
“Loving your bairn, Mary. Even then, loving your bairn.”
Yes, Margo thought, and loving her Mr. Hugh.
Mary’s face was dead white . . . sick white. “Mam . . . Mam,” she managed, “what have you done . . . to us all?”
“I did,” Kezzie said thickly, “the only thing I could think to do.
And the only thing that would have made any sense, if you had indeed been dead. Can you see that, Mary?”
“My baby,” Mary was whispering, “buried at sea—”
“Nae, love. Living . . . alive.” Kezzie’s hand, holding Margo’s, pulled her closer, and her eyes were fixed lovingly on Margo’s face.
“Your Angel, Mary.”
F rom one side of the bed, Mary raised incredulous eyes to the girl kneeling across from her, eyes in which understanding was dawning, eyes that were brimming with love, so long buried and so newly born, that Margo’s own breath was, quite truly, taken away.
With a cry not far different from the first wail of a newborn, Margo reached across the bed, her curly-fingered hands outstretched. For a moment the two pairs of eyes—blue and, like her father’s, brown—gazed into depths never seen or imagined before.
Across the body of the grandmother who had separated them, thinking she had done the best, hands were not enough. Mary and Margo, somehow, were wrapped in each other’s arms. The sounds, mewing, cooing, broken, told what words could never say. Only Kezzie’s eventual shifting drew mother and daughter apart, and then it was so that Margo could slip around the end of the bed and into her mother’s arms again.
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 w
ith 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.”