When Calls the Heart Read online

  “I stopped to let you know that Phillip won’t be attending class today. He has a cold, and his mother has decided not to send him out in the rain.”

  At the words “his mother,” I backed away a step farther from the man who spoke to me.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I managed. “I do hope that it will not be serious.”

  “I’m sure that it won’t. You know children. They can be back racing about in an hour’s time. Mothers take a little longer to recuperate from a child’s illness.” He grinned.

  “Yes,” I answered. “I guess so.”

  “I’ll be coming back this way sometime between three and four. Lydia would like me to pick up Phillip’s work so that he won’t fall behind his classmates. She’ll go over the lesson with him at home—if that’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “No—no, of course not. I’ll have it ready for you when you come by.”

  He smiled again, nodded slightly and left, his hat still in his hand. I turned to my blackboard, trying hard to concentrate on the lessons that I had to prepare. I dreaded the day ahead, for I knew that at its end I must see him again. I wished that I could keep Lars with me, to send him out to meet this man and hand him the required lessons. Of course I knew that I couldn’t do that. Lars was needed at home and, anyway, I would not hold any student for such a foolish and personal reason. With time and effort I would get over my silly feelings and accept the man as Jon’s married male friend—nothing more. He had never behaved as other than a perfect gentleman in my presence.

  To my amazement, all of my students except Phillip and Andy appeared for class. In fact, the total number that day was swelled, for the three older boys who had been working in the harvest fields were released because of the rain and attended classes for the first time.

  It soon became apparent, much to my consternation and embarrassment, that it was the young schoolmarm, rather than the lessons, who had brought them; they were not much younger than I and took every opportunity to tease and flirt a bit. I felt my cheeks flush several times during the day and was thankful when this awkward school day was finally over.

  Immediately, I set to work in preparing the material for Phillip’s home lessons. I did not want Mr. Delaney to be required to stand around waiting for them.

  The students had not been gone long and I had just finished my hurried preparations when his knock sounded on the schoolroom door.

  I gave him the packet, which he tucked inside his jacket to protect it from the rain, and then I dismissed him—rather curtly, I’m afraid.

  “I must get home and tend to my fire,” I told him, and hurried into my coat as I said the words. I made sure that I stood far enough away from him that he couldn’t offer assistance.

  He looked at me, then out the window, then at my flimsy shoes.

  “I could take you across on my horse,” he offered as I moved toward the door.

  I stopped in mid-stride. What a perfectly ridiculous idea! And how does he propose to do that? He must have read my shock.

  “It’s knee-deep out there in places.”

  Anger took hold of me now. I forgot to think of him as Jon’s friend and thought of him only as some woman’s husband.

  I inwardly fumed. Here he is, wanting to transport me home on his horse. How would he do that—fling me across its back, or carry me in his arms?

  “I’ll manage,” I declared, and he didn’t argue further. He left with Phillip’s homework, and in frustration I stamped about the classroom, putting away books, erasing the blackboard and shoving desks into line.

  At length I calmed down and went out to face the storm, careful to close the classroom door tightly behind me.

  As the cold rain whipped into my face, I became more clearheaded. I reminded myself that Mr. Delaney was a long-time friend of my brother Jonathan. His offer to deliver me home on his horse was a simple courtesy—out of a desire to care for the helpless young sister of a man whom he considered almost a brother; his thoughtful offer was nothing more than that. I felt better having sorted it out in my thinking. Perhaps Lydia Delaney’s husband merely was overly helpful, and she need have no worries after all. I put the whole thing from mind and began to plan a comfortable and restful evening.

  Mr. Delaney had been right—the water was deep. By the time I reached my door my shoes were ruined, my skirts were covered with muddy water, and my spirits were as soggy as my wet-to-the-knees hose.

  But I refused to mope about for the evening. My little ritual with teacup, familiar chair, and a favorite Dickens story went a long way toward improving my outlook.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Plans

  Saturday was also cold and rainy. I hand-washed my laundry and strung lines around my house to dry it. In the afternoon I had to haul more wood. It was a wet, muddy job, and I didn’t enjoy it.

  Sunday, too, was wet and miserable. Few people turned out for the afternoon service. Lars came over early to start the fire in the school stove. It did not smoke. Those who gathered were glad for its warmth and cheeriness. As previously arranged with Mr. Dickerson, I welcomed the children into the teacherage where we had a special Bible story, so I did not have much opportunity to visit with the other worshipers. Mr. Delaney was there with his mother, a very sweet-looking person, and when I met her I realized from whom Mr. Delaney had inherited his warm, friendly smile. Phillip was still home-bound with his cold, so his mother had stayed at home with him.

  After the service and my class was over, I escorted the children to the school, bid farewell to the worshipers, checked the stove in the classroom and sloshed home through the puddles. The rain had now stopped, and the sun was reappearing. Soon the earth was steaming from the heat. Fortunately, it looked as if our present spell of bad weather would be short-lived.

  By midweek the yard and roads were dry again. On Wednesday our other “sun” returned; Andy was back. The whole class cheered for him as he entered the schoolyard. I was just going out to ring the bell when he appeared, and I must admit that I, too, wished to cheer when I saw his sparkling eyes. His joy at being back lit his whole face.

  By midmorning I could tell that something was very wrong, but Andy shook his head when I asked him if he’d like to rest his head on his arms. By afternoon the pain dulled his eyes, and even resting his head didn’t help. I called Teresa aside and suggested that she take him home.

  “He shouldn’t come,” she said anxiously, “but he been so sad, an’ he coax an’ coax.”

  We bundled him up. They didn’t live far from the school, but I was anxious as I let him go, praying that he would be able to make it home.

  Just as Andy and Teresa moved out the door, Carl Clark’s hand shot up. He didn’t even wait to be recognized, something that I usually insisted upon. “Teacher,” he said quickly, “how ’bout I go along? Andy might need some carryin’.”

  There was real concern in Carl’s eyes, and my appreciation and relief must have shown on my face. Silently I nodded my permission.

  The entire class watched the three of them leave. The silence was broken by Else’s whisper, “He’s real sick, ain’t he, Teacher?”

  Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I could only nod. I even ignored the “ain’t.”

  “His folks should’ve taken him to the doctor again,” Mindy Blake commented.

  “They ain’t got no money.” This from Lars, my star grammar student, his frustration apparent in his voice and choice of words.

  “Then we should help them,” offered the shy Olga. She rarely spoke out in class.

  “Us? How?” replied many voices.

  Olga withdrew in embarrassment. Her seat mate, Maudie Clark, put a protective hand on her arm and then spoke boldly. “It wasn’t a dumb idea. We could, you know. We could bring our nickels and dimes or pennies even—an’ do special things at home so our pa’s might give us more money. An’ then we could put it together an’—”

  “Nickels an’ pennies don’t pay a doctor none,” this from
Mike Clark.

  “They’d help.” Maudie wasn’t going to back down. I decided to get things back under control.

  “I’m glad that in your concern for Andy, you’re willing to do something to help him, and I think that it’s a good idea—and a workable one. I’m sure that there is some way that we can find . . .” My words hung for a moment. It did sound possible. I just wasn’t sure yet how to go about it.

  “I want you to think about this tonight—all of you. What might we be able to do? Ask your parents for ideas. And tomorrow when we come, we’ll discuss our ideas and see what we can do.”

  All of the faces before me brightened. We settled back to our studies, but I often caught pensive looks and muffled whispers; I knew that thoughts were still on Andy and a possible way that we might help in getting him the medical attention he needed.

  I still had not solved my mice problem; my declaration of war daily seemed more impossible. The mice were not content with peaceful co-existence or with taking over my entire cupboard, having driven me to my trunks; but they wanted the rest of my house as well. Every time I cleaned up after them, my anger increased.

  On Friday morning it was apparent that they had enjoyed a good night’s romp. For the first time I found evidence that they had joined me in my bedroom. This was too much. Already in a foul mood after seeing where they had been, I went to the top drawer of my chest to get a fresh handkerchief. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the drawer had been open slightly because of a glove that had caught. Meticulous about closing drawers, I wondered how this one had missed my attention.

  I laid the glove properly in its section of the drawer and reached in the handkerchief box. Before my hand touched one of them, my eyes flashed me a message. Something was wrong—seriously wrong, and then I realized what had happened. The mice had been at my handkerchiefs! With a cry I pulled them out and stared at them. Pretty lace and embroidery had been reduced to chewed fragments. My favorite handkerchief, with the daintiest lace that I had ever seen, had suffered the worst. It was beyond repair, and frustrated tears gathered in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks as I looked at it. Angrily I returned the box to the drawer, slammed the drawer shut and marched off to the classroom. This time the mice had gone too far!

  After class I planned to call on the school-board chairman, Mr. Laverly, and insist that someone, somehow, dispose of those despicable rodents. I would refuse to live in the teacherage until something was done.

  By the time the students had arrived, I had managed to quiet my anger. We began our day by saluting our flag and reading some verses of scripture. I realized as the class took their seats that it would not do to go directly to our lessons. Their excited faces told me that first we must discuss what we as a school could do to help Andy.

  Many suggestions were presented, some to .cheers and others to groans. I listed them all carefully on the board. I wrote in large letters, realizing that Tim Mattoch had an eye problem and could hardly see the board. His parents could not afford to get him glasses, so Tim struggled on, squinting and squirming, often having to approach the board so that he might make out a letter or a number.

  There were many good suggestions. I decided to let the students discuss them for a few minutes before we commenced our lessons. After a fair amount of discussion, Mindy suggested that we take a vote. It seemed reasonable. The voters decided that we would have a penny circus and a box social on October 25 at the school; all money raised through the event would go to help Andy Pastachuck. Everyone was happy and excited, but once the matter was decided, they were better able to settle down to their lessons. I was proud of them for their concern, and I was also eager to help Andy in any way that we could.

  At the end of the day I asked for the directions to the Laverlys’ farm. The place would not be hard to find but required a three-mile walk. Undaunted, I put on my hat, buttoned my coat, and set off. For the first two miles I walked with the Clark girls. The boys had hurried on ahead, for they had chores awaiting them. Also, they didn’t care to be seen with a bunch of girls. The Blake girls had also walked with us for the first mile.

  It was a pleasant day, and I found the little expedition enjoyable. Only a few mudholes remained in the road from the recent heavy rain, and those we were easily able to skirt.

  After I left my students, I walked more briskly. I missed their chatter, but on the other hand I was glad for the solitude after a busy school day. At last the Laverly farm came into view.

  The Laverly sons were no longer of school age, and I thought that it was very commendable of Mr. Laverly to have worked so hard to get a school when none of his family would directly benefit from it.

  Mrs. Laverly was a bustling, energetic woman with a great deal of curiosity. She pumped me with questions, not only about my work in the classroom but about my family and background as well. She insisted that I have coffee and sandwiches. After she had set the pot on to boil, she went to the back porch and pounded with a metal rod on a large iron plate. I jumped at the first loud, harsh sound.

  “Thet’ll call in the menfolk,” she explained, “They’re in the field out back.”

  I apologized for interrupting Mr. Laverly from his work. I hadn’t even considered that he might be busy, so anxious was I to be rid of my freeloading tenants.

  “Thet’s a’right. Thet’s a’right,” she assured me. “They’ll be wantin’ somethin’ to eat anyway. An’ b’sides, it’s time for one of ’em to start chorin’.”

  Mrs. Laverly set to work on a huge plate of man-sized sandwiches. Thick slices of homemade bread, generously—though not particularly carefully—spread with fresh butter and covered with large portions of cheese or cold roast beef were quickly assembled, while her tongue moved as fast as her hands. I wondered if I’d be able to get such thick sandwiches into my mouth. I offered to help her, but she waved me off with the butcher knife which she was using on the beef.

  “No need to be a helpin’. Me, I’m not used to another woman underfoot. Had to do it alone all my life. Jest raised boys, ya know—five of ’em. Lost one, but still got four. One of ’em’s married an’ lives near Edmonton. Other three lives right here an’ helps with the farm. Don’t know what their pa would do without ’em. Middle one’s kinda got ’im a girl, an’ the youngest one’s been a’lookin’. Oldest one don’t seem much interested. S’pose I’ll end up havin’ to find someone for ’im an’ draggin’ ’im off to the preacher myself.”

  She rambled on as if it were one continuous sentence with hardly a pause for breath.

  The sandwiches were placed on the table, and tin cups for coffee were set out. We could hear the menfolk tramping toward the house. They stopped on the back porch to slosh water over their faces and arms, squabbled some over the rights to the coarse towel, brushed the worst of the straw from themselves, and came in.

  It was apparent from their faces that they hadn’t expected to see me. Three grown men suddenly turned shy. One of them flushed beet red, while another fiddled nervously with his hair, his collar, his suspenders. The third one seemed to regain his composure almost immediately and decided to make the most of the situation, appearing to take pleasure in the discomfort of his brothers. He turned out to be George, the middle one, the one with a girl. The red-faced one was Bill, the youngest; the nervous one was the eldest son, Henry. I recognized them as three of the men who had huddled near the door during my welcoming party.

  We sat up to the table together, and the men reached for the sandwiches, the enormous size giving them no pause. I managed, too, in spite of the fact that the portions were anything but dainty; they were delicious, especially after my nice, long walk.

  Mr. Laverly was cordial and warm. He was even allowed to ask me a question or two in between the ones peppered at me by Mrs. Laverly. The three sons were at first too busy with eating to pay any attention to the conversation—or so I thought. By the time the supper was over, George was joking and teasing, and Bill was openly staring. But Henry kept his eye on his plate and c
up, unwilling—or unable—to participate in the talk around the table.

  I waited until after the meal—for it was a complete meal by my standards—before I asked to talk to Mr. Laverly concerning my mice problem. He was such a nice man that I approached the subject very calmly, making sure I didn’t insinuate that the mice were inhabiting the teacherage with his permission. I hurriedly poured out my whole tale. He stuffed his pipe and lit it, inhaled a few times, but all of the time that I talked, he offered no comment. I told him of the mice dwelling in my cupboards, entering into my bedroom, and taking over my dresser drawers. However, I did not tell him about my lace handkerchiefs. I was afraid that if I went into those details I would lose my temper, or cry—or maybe both.

  He listened patiently, but eventually I gathered that he felt that a few mice in the house were really nothing to get so worked up about. When I finally stopped for breath, he removed the pipe from his mouth.

  “We’ll git ya some traps.”

  “I tried that.”

  He looked surprised.

  “Well, a cat might—”

  “I tried that, too,” I said in frustration. I avoided explaining why they hadn’t worked.

  “Me an’ the boys’ll go over an’ see what we can find. Must be comin’ in somewhere. We’ll take some tin an’ nail up the holes.”

  This sounded good, but I was not completely satisfied.

  “What about those that are already in?” I asked.

  “We’ll care fer ’em.”

  I was more content then.

  “Hope ya don’t mind us stirrin’ round in yer quarters none. We’ll git at it this next week.”

  I thought of the silent Henry, the teasing George and the flirting Bill.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I moved out for the week.”

  “Moved out?” He looked alarmed, as though if I left the teacher-age, he might never see me again.