When Calls the Heart Read online

  © 1983 by Janette Oke

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  Ebook corrections 09.6.2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6456-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover and interior photographs courtesy of Frontier Productions and Crown Media Networks

  To my oldest sister,

  Elizabeth Margaret (Betty) Cox,

  for having the patience

  to let me “pull the needle,”

  and for many other reasons.

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  1. Elizabeth

  2. The First Step

  3. On the Way

  4. Calgary

  5. Family

  6. Introductions

  7. Mr. Higgins’ Plan

  8. The New School

  9. The Wilderness

  10. Lars

  11. The Petersons

  12. Trip to Town

  13. Saturday

  14. Sunday

  15. School Begins

  16. Joint Tenants

  17. Sunday Service

  18. Letters

  19. The Living Mousetrap

  20. A Visitor

  21. Pupils

  22. The School Stove

  23. Plans

  24. Napoleon

  25. The Box Social

  26. Andy

  27. School Break

  28. Dee

  29. Return to School

  30. The Christmas Program

  31. Christmas Eve

  32. Christmas Day

  33. The Confession

  34. Return to Pine Springs

  35. Spring

  36. School Ends

  Letter from Janette Oke and Photo Insert

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Preface

  I would like to supply my readers with a few facts concerning the North West Mounted Police. The Force was founded in 1873 as an answer to the problem of illicit liquor trade and lawlessness in the West. It has been said that the Mountie was dressed in a red coat to readily set him apart from the U.S. Cavalry. The Mountie’s job was to make peace with the Indians, not to defeat them; and many of the Indian tribes which he had to deal with had already had run-ins with the troops from south of the border. Whether for this reason, or some other, the scarlet tunic soon became distinctive, and set apart the man who was wearing it.

  The uniform and the name both evolved. The title of Royal North West Mounted Police was granted by King Edward VII in 1904, in recognition of the Force’s contribution to Canada. In 1920, the name was changed to Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Eventually, the red coat was adopted as the dress uniform of the Force, and a more practical brown coat was chosen for regular duty, because, said Superintendent Steele, it was “almost impossible for even a neat and tidy man to keep the red coat clean for three months on the trail.” The hat also changed from the original pill-box, through various shapes and designs, to the Stetson that was approved in 1901.

  It was the Yukon Gold Rush of 1895 that first brought the Mounties into the Far North. By 1898 there were twelve officers and 254 sergeants and constables in the Yukon. The Mounted Police by then were using a new form of transportation—the dog team. With the use of their huskies, they policed hundreds of square miles of snow-covered territory. Trappers, traders and Indian villages were scattered throughout their areas of patrol.

  Although I try not to be too sentimental when I think of the Mounties and their part in the development of the Canadian West, to me, they are a living symbol of my Canadian home-land. To the people of the Lacombe area, may I assure you that among the names of Spruceville, Blackfalds, Brookfield, Turville and Iowalta; Woody Nook, Jones Valley, Canyon and Eclipse; Eureka, Spring Valley, Arbor Dale and Blindman; Central, West Branch, Birch Lake and Lincoln; Milton, Mt. Grove, Sunny Crest and Morningside; Gull Lake, Lakeside and Fairview; you will find no Pine Springs. Nor will you find a historic character that matches Pearlie’s pa in the town of Lacombe itself. All of the characters in the story are fictional, with no intended likenesses to anyone either living or dead.

  May I also assure you that having grown up in the Hoadley area and having spent my early school years in the little one-room school at Harmonien, I have a great deal of love for and many fond memories of rural Alberta community life.

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth

  It came as a great surprise to me. Oh, not the letter itself. We were all used to the arrival of letters from brother Jonathan. They came quite regularly and always caused a small stir in our household. No, it wasn’t the letter, but rather what it contained that caught me completely off guard. And Mother’s response to it was even more astounding.

  The day, April 12, 1910, had started out like every other day. I arose early, had a quiet prayer time in my room, cared for my grooming, breakfasted with the family, and left at 8:00 to walk the eleven blocks to the school where I taught. I had made it a habit to be there early so that I would have plenty of time to make my morning preparations before the students arrived. I was usually the first teacher to make an appearance, but I rather enjoyed the early morning quietness of the other-wise noisy building.

  As I walked along on that delightful spring morning, the world appeared especially beautiful and alive. For some reason, the flower-scented air and the song of the birds caused me to take a rare look at my inner self.

  And how are you this delightful spring morning? I asked myself.

  Why, I am just fine, thank you, I silently answered, and then almost blushed as I quickly looked around for fear that someone might be able to read my thoughts. It wasn’t like me to talk to myself—even inwardly, especially when walking along this public, maple-sheltered street. But no one shared the sidewalk with me at the moment so the self-dialogue continued.

  Are you now? And what is it that makes your day so glorious—your step so feather-light?

  The morning; life itself; the very fragrance of the air I breathe.

  ’Tis nice—but, then, you have always been a soul who took pleasure in just being alive. I do declare that you would be happy and contented anywhere on God’s green earth.

  No—not really. Not really.

  The sudden turn of the conversation and the switch of my emotion surprised me. There was a strange and unfamiliar stirring deep within me. A restlessness was there, begging me to give it proper notice. I tried to push it back into a recessed corner of my being, but it elbowed its way forward.

  You’re always doing that! it hotly declared. Whenever I try to raise my head, you push me down, shove me back. Why are you so afraid to confront me?

  Afraid?

  Yes, afraid.

  I’m not afraid. It’s just that I believe—I’ve been taught—that one ought to be content with what one has, especially if one has been as blessed as I. It is a shame—no, a sin—to feel discontented while enjoying all of the good things
that life—and Papa—have showered upon me.

  Aye, t’would be a sin to disregard one’s blessings. I should never wish you to do so. But perhaps, just perhaps, it would quiet your soul if you’d look fairly and squarely at what makes the empty little longing tug at you now and then.

  It was a challenge; and though I still felt fearful, and perhaps not a little guilty, I decided that I must take a look at this inner longing if the voice was ever to be stilled.

  I was born Elizabeth Marie Thatcher on June 3, 1891, the third daughter to Ephraim and Elizabeth Thatcher. My father was a merchantman in the city of Toronto and had done very well for himself and his family. In fact, we were considered part of the upper class, and I was used to all of the material benefits that came with such a station. My father’s marriage to my mother was the second one for her. She had first been married to a captain in the King’s service. To this union had been born a son, my half brother, Jonathan. Mother’s first husband had been killed when Jonathan was but three years old; Mother therefore had returned to her own father’s house, bringing her small son with her.

  My father met my mother at a Christmas dinner given by mutual friends. She had just officially come out of mourning, though she found it difficult to wrap up her grief and lay it aside with her mourning garments. I often wondered just what appealed most to my father, the beauty of the young widow or her obvious need for someone to love and care for her. At any rate, he wooed and won her, and they were married the following November.

  The next year my oldest sister, Margaret, was born. Ruthie then followed two years later. Mother lost a baby boy between Ruthie and me, and it nearly broke her heart. I think now that she was disappointed that I wasn’t a son, but for some reason I was the one whom she chose to bear her name. Julie arrived two years after me. Then, two and a half years later, much to Mother’s delight, another son was born, our baby brother, Matthew. I can’t blame Mother for spoiling Matthew, for I know full well that we shared in it equally. From the time that he arrived, we all pampered and fussed over him.

  Our home lacked nothing. Papa provided well for us, and Mother spent hours making sure that her girls would grow into ladies. Together my parents assumed the responsibility for our spiritual nurturing and, within the proper boundaries, we were encouraged to be ourselves.

  Margaret was the nesting one of the family. She married at eighteen and was perfectly content to give herself completely to making a happy home for her solicitor husband and their little family. Ruth was the musical one, and she was encouraged to develop her talent as a pianist under the tutorship of the finest teachers available. When she met a young and promising violinist in New York and decided that she would rather be his accompanist than a soloist, my parents gave her their blessing.

  I was known as the practical one, the one who could always be counted on. It was I whom Mother called if ever there was a calamity or problem when Papa wasn’t home, relying on what she referred to as my “cool head” and “quick thinking.” Even at an early age I knew that she often depended upon me.

  I guess it was my practical side that made me prepare for independence, and with that in mind I took my training to be a teacher. I knew Mother thought that a lady, attractive and pleasant as she had raised me to be, had no need for a career; after all, a suitable marriage was available by just nodding my pretty head at some suitor. But she held her tongue and even encouraged me in my pursuit.

  I loved children and entered the classroom with confidence and pleasure. I enjoyed my third-graders immensely.

  My sister Julie was our flighty one, the adventure-seeker, the romantic. I loved her dearly, but I often despaired of her silliness. She was dainty and pretty, so she had no trouble getting plenty of male attention; but somehow it never seemed to be enough for her. I prayed daily for Julie.

  Matthew! I suppose that I was the only one in the family to feel, at least very often, concern for Matthew. I could see what we all had done to him with our spoiling, and I wondered if we had gone too far. Now a teenager, he was too dear to be made to suffer because of the over-attention of a careless family. He and I often had little private times together when I tried to explain to him the responsibilities of the adult world. At first I felt that my subtle approach was beyond his understanding, but then I began to see a consciousness of the meaning of my words breaking through. He became less demanding, and began to assert himself in the proper sense, to stand independently. I nurtured hope that we hadn’t ruined him after all. He was showing a strength of character that manifested itself in love and concern for others. Our Matt was going to make something of himself in spite of us.

  My morning reverie was interrupted by the particularly sweet song of a robin. He seemed so happy as he perched on a limb high over my head, and my heart broke away from its review of my family to sing its own little song to accompany him.

  Well, I thought when our song had ended, the restlessness does not come because I do not appreciate the benefits that God has given me, nor does it come because I do not love my family. Some of the feeling of guilt began to drain away from me. I felt much better having honestly discovered these facts.

  So . . . I went on, Why am I feeling restless? What is wrong with me?

  Nothing is wrong, the inner me replied. As you said, you are not unappreciative nor uncaring. Yet it is true that you are restless. That does not prove that you are lacking, It is just time to move on, that’s all.

  To move on? I was as incredulous as if the answer had come from a total stranger.

  Certainly. What do you think brings the robin back each spring? It is not that he no longer has his nest nor his food supply. He just knows that it is time to move on.

  But to move on WHERE? How?

  You’ll know when the time comes.

  But I’m not sure that I want -

  Hush.

  I had never even considered “moving on” before. I was very much a “home person.” I wasn’t even especially taken with the idea of marriage. Oh, I supposed that somewhere, someday, there would be someone, but I certainly had no intention of going out looking for him, nor had I been very impressed with any of the young men who had come looking for me. On more than one occasion I had excused myself and happily turned them over to Julie. She also seemed pleased with the arrangement; but the feelings of the young men involved, I must shamefully confess, concerned me very little.

  And now I was to “move on”?

  The uneasiness within me changed to a new feeling—fear. Being a practical person and knowing full well that I wasn’t prepared to deal with these new attitudes at the present, I pushed them out of my mind, entered the sedate brick school building and my third-grade classroom, and deliberately set myself to concentrating on the spelling exercise for the first class of the morning. Robert Ackley was still having problems. I had tried everything that I knew to help him. What could I possibly try next?

  I went through the entire day with a seriousness and intent unfamiliar even to me. Never before had I put myself so totally into my lessons, to make them interesting and understandable. At the end of the day I was exhausted, so I decided to clean the blackboards and go home. Usually I spent an hour or so in preparation for the next day’s lessons, but I just didn’t feel up to it this time. I hurriedly dusted off the erasers, shoved some lesson books into my bag, securely fastened the classroom door behind me, and left the three-story building.

  The walk home refreshed me somewhat; I even saw the robin with whom I had sung a duet that morning! I felt more like myself as I climbed our front steps and let myself in. Mother was in the small sunroom pouring tea that Martha, our maid, had brought. She didn’t even seem surprised to see me home early.

  “Lay aside your hat and join me,” she called. I detected excitement in her voice.

  I placed my light shawl and hat on the hall table and took a chair opposite Mother. I felt I could use a cup of strong, hot tea.

  “I got a letter from Jonathan,” Mother announced as she ha
nded me my cup.

  I assumed then that her excitement was due to Jonathan’s letter, or the news that it contained.

  Jonathan was still special to Mother. Being her firstborn and only child from her first marriage, he was also her first love in many ways. Julie had on occasion suggested that Mother loved Jonathan more than the rest of us. I tried to convince Julie that Mother did not love him more—just differently.

  I often thought how difficult it must have been for her to give him up, to let him go. Jonathan had been just nineteen when he decided that he must go west. I was only four years old at the time and too young to really understand it all, but I had been aware after he left that something was different about our home, about Mother, though she tried hard not to let it affect the rest of us. Three months after Jonathan had left, baby Matthew had arrived, and Mother’s world had taken on new meaning. Yet not even Matt had taken Jonathan’s place in her heart.

  And now Mother sat opposite me, calmly serving tea, though I could tell that she felt anything but calm. Whatever the news in Jonathan’s letter, I sensed that Mother was excited rather than concerned, so her tenseness did not frighten me.

  “How is he?” I asked, choosing to let Mother pick her own time and words for revealing her excitement.

  “Oh, just fine. The family is well. Mary is feeling fine. She is due soon now. Jonathan’s lumber business is growing. He had to hire another clerk last month.”

  It all sounded good. I was happy for this older brother whom I barely remembered, yet somehow I felt that Mother’s present mood did not stem from any of the facts that she had so hurriedly stated. I mumbled a polite response about being glad for Jonathan’s good fortune and sipped my tea. I did wish that Mother would get to the point.

  Mother didn’t even lift her cup; instead, she reached into the bosom of her gown and removed Jonathan’s recent letter. We were all used to her doing that. Whenever a letter from Jonathan arrived, she would read it through a number of times and then tuck it in the front of her dress. She carried it around with her for days and would pull it forth and reread it whenever time allowed.