by Ruth Glover
It was Franny’s father’s chain and compass.
Kerry had seen it too often and too closely to be mistaken. Dangling across the chest of Dudley Baldwin: the chain and compass that had been the cherished property of Franny Bentley. It was treasured particularly because it had been the only memento Franny had to remind her of her father. It signified Franny’s confidence in . . . someone in the Canadian bush and had been sent as a token of her trust; it had been a pledge given to an untrustworthy love.
In the moment following the revelation of Dudley’s involvement, sight and sound seemed to fade from Kerry’s consciousness, and a whirligig of thoughts spun through her head. How did Dudley come by the personal property of Franny Bentley? Had Connor, having dismissed from his mind the idea of marriage, given Franny’s gift to Dudley? Or—stabbing her heart with its possibilities—had she falsely accused an innocent man all this time? Finally, should she confront Dudley now, at this moment, and ferret out the truth, or must she sit in stunned silence during the remainder of the meal and afternoon?
She had no choice; her face gave her away.
Sitting across the table from her was the one who knew her best. Gladdy saw the look of shock and dismay on Kerry’s face. That face, usually glowing, ardent, even piquant, was bleached of color. Gladdy was alarmed.
“Kerry, what’s wrong?” So intense was the edge of fear in Gladdy’s voice that everyone heard it. Silence fell around the great table, and all eyes turned—first on Gladdy, then, following her gaze, across the table to Kerry.
Kerry was staring at the bright wink of the handsome gold chain that was stretched across Dudley’s middle. So stark and fixed was her gaze that the eyes of one and all turned back across the table, to Dudley.
Dudley was pinned to his chair by the stares of ten people as their eyes focused on a point well below his chin, above his belt, and between the lapels of his coat. His big, bony hand went automatically to his middle, and he gathered the chain and charm into his fist.
“What?” he croaked. “What?”
All eyes shifted to Dudley’s face, itself now a sickly white.
Though it lasted but a minute, the silence was electric with meaning. Gladdy was the first to move. She turned toward Dudley, placed her hand over his fist, and loosened his fingers gently. Ten pairs of eyes studied the exposed chain and charm.
Kerry came to the truth in an instant, and it came from the sick face of Dudley and the puzzled face of Connor Dougal. Guilt and shame were written on the thin, shaken countenance of the younger man; innocence and perplexity on the strong, square face of the older man. Connor Dougal did not know! Connor Dougal was innocent. Connor Dougal had never been guilty of the blame she had heaped upon him. Wrongfully heaped upon him.
Kerry was stricken speechless by the revelation, and no one else had the least understanding of what was happening. It was up to Gladdy.
Raising her eyes from the chain and charm, Gladdy looked at Kerry.
“Franny’s?” she asked quietly.
Kerry wet her dry lips, swallowed, and nodded, “Franny’s. Of course.”
Of course! It all made sense at last. How fast her heart beat in that moment, thinking of the morning’s precious moment of salvation and what it had saved her from. Not the least was her persistent condemnation of a man who was, apparently, innocent of the charges she had leveled at him.
Her joy was tempered quickly by pity—for the shamefaced young man opposite her and the dear, distressed face of Gladdy.
Some day, not too long from now, the concerned friends around the table would be given an explanation. Kerry’s wilful part in the story would be told and forgiven. Dudley’s part would be told, understood for an adolescent prank that had, nevertheless, terrible results, and he would be forgiven. For the moment, however, the puzzled friends would have to wait and trust.
For Gladdy it would not be so simple.
Gladdy and Dudley excused themselves, left the Morrison home silently, boarded Dudley’s rig, and rattled out of the yard and away. What transpired between the recently betrothed pair, or at least part of it, was relayed to Kerry later in the day.
“I knew it was Franny’s chain and charm the minute I saw it,” Gladdy said to Kerry that evening in their room, “and my heart squeezed up until I thought I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know, you see, whether our affection for one another, just beginning to grow, would survive this blow. It was selfish of me, Kerry, but it was all I could think of at the moment.
“We no sooner got away from Morrisons,” she continued, “than Dudley pulled the chain off his vest and laid it in my hands. ‘Do with it whatever is right,’ he said. ‘Send it back to the lady who sent it, if you wish. Tell her how sorry I am I was such a . . . a dud.’ Then, Kerry,” Gladdy’s voice was sad, “he asked how you and I knew about it, anyway. Can you imagine having to tell him the whole story? The worst moment was when I told him about Franny’s death. He seemed like a frozen man, not knowing whether to choke or cry or leap out of the buggy and run away from the sound of my voice. He’ll be a long time getting over that, Kerry, if he ever does.
“It wasn’t easy to explain our part in it, either.” Gladdy’s voice was steady, but her eyes were more than a little condemning as she looked at the friend who had set the feet of both of them on the bitter track of revenge. “How can I blame him, when I was part of the scheme?”
Gladdy sighed. “Knowing him a little by now, I think I understand why he did it. It developed out of his poor relationship with his mother and a deep anger toward her. His hopelessness over his future, his adolescence, all were part of it. What happened is, he saw Franny’s letter in a magazine and at first it seemed like a lot of fun to answer it. But before he knew it, he got in deeper and deeper. Well, you know, Kerry, as dear as Franny was, she was determined on following through with this and immediately turned serious on him. He got frightened when he realized she was actually going to come out here. He had to break it off, and quickly.
“He cried, Kerry. Have you ever see a grown man cry? It’s dreadful. And yet it may have helped him to . . . sort of be cleansed of the awfulness. When he learned that I, personally, knew and loved Franny, he just knew it was all over between us. I think people have thrown him over, disregarded his feelings, most of his life. He feels he isn’t much. And here he was, planning a new life and a new beginning, and suddenly it seemed like even that was gone for him. I couldn’t let that happen, Kerry. Someone has to give him a chance. I can’t throw him over, too.
“Whenever the invitation has been given, at church, he says he feels such conviction that he trembles, but he hasn’t been able to respond because it might mean confessing. He’s glad, actually, that it has all come out into the open. He says, whatever my feelings are for him, he loves me. I believe he does, Kerry.” Gladdy sighed.
“But what about you, Gladdy? It’s fine to be loyal and stand by him, but that isn’t enough for a life together. How do you feel about him now?”
“Terribly disappointed, I guess. But I do understand, having met his mother and knowing his situation. And then, Kerry . . .”
“And then?”
“I have to practice what I preached to you just the other day. Remember, I told you to forgive and forget. Suddenly I have to face the same thing. But Kerry,” Gladdy said weeping, “I don’t have the grace that you have.”
Kerry stretched her hand to her hurting friend, and as they joined tears and prayers, Gladdy found the grace she needed. Found it, and vowed to encourage Dudley so that he too would find full forgiveness and peace. It was good ground to begin a new life.
“One last thing. How come,” Kerry asked, “Dudley had that picture of Connor, and why did he use his name?”
“The picture was taken at his father’s funeral. A photographer showed up, looking for a little business, and he and his mother bought the pictures. It was just a freak decision to use it and Connor’s name. ‘I was all pimply and puny in those days,’ he told me. And then he was a
fraid that if he used his own name, his mother might get hold of a letter. As it was, he intercepted all mail with Franny’s return address on it, and no one ever found out. Kerry,” Gladdy said directly, “will you forgive Dudley? It was a dreadful thing to do. In a way he’s responsible for Franny’s death. Will you forgive him? It’s important to me.”
“I already have, Gladdy. Thank God, I was forgiven first! These Scriptures that I know, they keep popping up, and now they speak to me. It was Jesus who said, ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ It’s that simple. I don’t know why I never thought of it before.”
“There’s no arguing with Scripture.” And Gladdy hugged her friend, their tears mingling together.
“I’m glad we’ll be leaving here, starting over,” Gladdy said. “It’ll be so much easier for Dudley to act like a man. I’m going to give him that chance, Kerry. If it kills me to keep my mouth shut and my ideas to myself, I’ll do it, and he’ll get on his feet and be the head of the household. I need that, and so does he.” So spoke the homeless little slum transplant. And so her future stretched out before her.
Back at the Morrisons’, with Gladdy and Dudley gone and the air thick with unanswered questions, Kerry had taken a deep breath and said, “All of you—thank you for being such good dear friends. You’ll know all about this very soon. I think we should give Gladdy and Dudley a chance to straighten things out first. Now, if you’ll excuse me, perhaps I need to leave, too. I need to think and pray and—I need to talk. To you, Connor,” she said, making the decision in that moment, and turning directly to him. “I need to talk to you. Would you be so kind as to take me home?”
Difficult though it would be, she needed to explain to Connor her ridiculous posture as a flirt, confess her bitter and revengeful feelings toward him, and ask for forgiveness.
Forgiveness and peace! They were such new gifts; they were to be guarded by all means.
She was graciously excused by the family and Connor quickly consented to drive her home. In the buggy, the horse walking along sedately, the only sound being the rig’s creak and the plop of hooves, Kerry’s dusky complexion—that went so well with her dark hair and eyes—was drained of color. Connor watched her, concerned.
“I don’t know where to start,” she faltered.
“First, tell me why it’s necessary to tell at all. And why to me?”
“Because it concerns you. You are at the heart and center of it all, why I’m here in the first place, why I—” Kerry’s anguish made it difficult to continue. “Why I behaved like such a . . . such an easy woman—”
If she had been looking, she’d have seen the little smile that tugged at Connor’s mouth. Never would he have described her hesitant attempts to get his attention as the work of an “easy” woman. An inexperienced woman perhaps. An innocent, uncertain girl to be more exact.
“When I’m done,” she said, “you’ll need to forgive me, if you can.”
“I assure you I forgive you now. After all, Kerry, you didn’t hurt me in any way. Did you?” His question was gentle. Acquainted with sin, he was also acquainted with forgiveness and its healing qualities. If that were needed, he would gladly cooperate.
“If I haven’t hurt you already, I soon would have. And the terrible part is that I would have been glad about it,” Kerry admitted, ashamed.
Connor looked puzzled now. “Perhaps you had better tell me,” he said.
Where to start?
She turned to her string bag, opened it, and searched until she found it—the picture of Connor Dougal.
“I’ll start here,” she said, holding it up for him to see. See and frown.
“Where did you get that?” he asked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it.”
“It was sent to my dearest friend in all the world, Frances Bentley. She was as dear as a sister to me. I don’t suppose that name means a thing to you—”
“Not a thing. I’ve never heard it before. Never saw the picture, never heard the name.”
“Franny corresponded with someone . . . with this man,” Kerry held up Connor’s picture again.
Connor’s eyebrow quirked. He was alert now.
“And,” she went on doggedly, “he asked her to marry him—”
“Hold on a minute! This sounds like some fairy story!”
“It’s all too terribly real.”
“All right. But if it’s so troubling, why can’t it just be forgotten?”
“Because—now that I know how wrong I was and how innocent you are—I need to ask you . . . with all my heart . . . to forgive me!” Already wept out from the morning’s purging, Kerry found a fresh supply somewhere, and again the tears puddled, pooled, and ran. Again Connor’s handkerchief was proffered, and again it served its purpose.
“‘I have eaten ashes like bread,’” Kerry sniffled, finding the Scripture to be painfully descriptive.
“Come now,” Connor said comfortingly, “dry your tears. As near as I can tell, I’m supposed to have done something terrible to this dear friend.”
“You, or . . . somebody. But I blamed you. That’s why I’m here, Connor—”
As yet Kerry didn’t have Dudley’s explanation, which would come later through Gladdy, but she knew enough to tell Connor about the letters sent in his name, the proposal, the final rejection, darling Franny’s collapse.
“It was Dudley, I suppose,” Connor said thoughtfully, “and he sent my picture. It may have been taken at his father’s funeral. And the chain and charm—where do they fit in?”
“They were Franny’s father’s. She sent them to you—to Dudley, as it turns out—as a token of her commitment. She was preparing to come to Bliss. You’d have loved Franny,” she finished brokenly.
If Kerry had dared look up, she would have seen an expression on the clean-cut face at her shoulder that would have caused her to catch her breath. When finally Connor spoke, there was such a depth of feeling in his words that Kerry did indeed turn her gaze upward, did catch her breath, did become wonder-eyed.
“Perhaps I can love Franny’s friend,” he said quietly. “Perhaps she can learn to love me.”
The song of a distant meadowlark, winging from Saskatchewan’s endless sky, touched the moment with piercing sweetness.
“Perhaps,” Kerry whispered, but he heard.
He heard, and his eyes lit with hope and happiness. “Thank You, Lord!” he lifted to that same broad sky, recognizing a wiser and bigger hand than his own in all of this.
Perhaps the sound of the horse’s hooves and the turning wheels stirred the surrounding greenery, for a rich paean of song poured forth from the bush’s birds, all primed and practiced, it seemed, to celebrate the moment.
“‘The time of the singing of birds is come,’” Connor quoted jubilantly, and he drew Kerry’s head to a place of rest on his shoulder.
“Song of Solomon, chapter two, verse twelve,” Kerry murmured, not a bit surprised that Connor Dougal would describe this special moment with Scripture.
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.
Also by Ruth Glover
A Place Called Bliss