by Ruth Glover
Perhaps it was Tierney’s comparison of Frank Schmidt and Lucian MacDermott that settled lingering fears for Anne. But the next morning, as the girls stood shivering in the morning’s coolness and a wagon lumbered up to them with the sturdy form of Frank Schmidt on the seat, Anne, though pale, was courageous.
Perhaps it had been Pearly’s prayer. About to leave the room, with Anne’s baggage and purse and cape and shawl in their hands and over their arms, Pearly had paused and looked at the others expectantly. Though tempted, Anne withstood the urge to roll her eyes skyward and said, instead, in an unusually humble voice, “Well, Pearly, we a’ know ye’re goin’ to pray. So—why not get aboot it?”
And pray Pearly did. Never free to pray aloud in her London chapel among her more experienced companions, here, among “heathern,” as she referred to them, she felt perfectly free, even inspired.
“Dear Lord, here we are, poor girls far from home. But You sees us, You cares for us, and You promised You would never leave us nor forsake us, that is—” Pearly took the opportunity to do a little preaching along with her praying, “that is, if we acknow . . . if we take Your Son as our personal Lord and Savior. Even if some of us haven’t done that [two out of three, she might as well have pointed out], still You love us. Please help Annie to know this, deep in her heart, and to be willin’ to look to You for the help she will surely . . . I mean she might need, along the way. Keep her safe in Yer care—”
Anne shifted, uneasy under the spotlight of prayer on her behalf and ready for it to be turned from her. Pearly caught the hint and finished with a flurry: “Now and forever, ah-men.”
Bravely Anne nodded good morning to Frank Schmidt; bravely she hugged and kissed the two who had been her companions for so long and on so daring an adventure. Bravely she held, a little longer, onto that special one who had been her friend through trials and joys across the years, now to be separated from her for the Lord only knew how long.
Bravely she climbed aboard the wagon, stepping on the wheel hub, reaching for the man’s hand stretched out to her, and heaving herself up onto the seat beside him.
Bravely she watched Tierney and Pearly toss her belongings into the back of the wagon; bravely she waved as the driver flicked the reins and urged the team forward, the wagon creaking and groaning as it got underway.
But bravery could not conceal the shaking shoulders of the small, hunched form as the rig rolled down the street, turned a corner, and passed from sight.
Long after Tierney had turned back to the door of the hostel, Pearly stood in the street, gazing at emptiness, her face a mask, an expressionless mask.
“Comin’, Pearly?” Tierney called gently, touched that the new addition to the friendship was so moved by the loss of one of the group.
If Pearly heard, she made no move. From the other end of the street a wagon approached, soon to be upon the motionless figure.
“Pearly!” Tierney called sharply, and Pearly jumped.
Looking wildly around, Pearly shook her head as though clearing it of dreams, certainly of thoughts, and leaped for the boardwalk. Still she lingered, standing in the hostel’s doorway, looking up the street that had taken Anne—and Frankie Schmidt—away.
Waiting for her, Tierney was puzzled. If anyone was affected by the loss of Anne, it should have been Tierney. She was, after all, Annie’s best friend, had been for years. She was not untouched by the parting.
Risking repetition, she repeated, “Pearly?”
Pearly turned slowly, a light fading from her eyes. Surely her slim shoulders were drooping, surely it was a long sigh that caused her small bosom to heave.
Silently the girls made their way back up to their room. Small, it suddenly seemed vacant now that one-third of them was no longer in it.
Still silent, Pearly sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the floor and her dusty boots. Tierney watched her for a moment, then took a seat beside her. With a start Pearly turned her small face, and a smile—was it forced?—flickered on her lips. She drew a deep breath, as though shoring herself up under a heavy burden.
“Pearly,” Tierney said, “wha’s wrong, lass? I dinna remember seein’ ye in this frame of mind afore. What is it, lassie? Surely ye’re not worrit aboot Anne. I’ll be takin’ off, too, p’raps afore ye do, and ye may hae to watch me go, same as Annie.”
“I’m all right, Tierney,” Pearly said, but slowly, and Tierney was unconvinced.
“I dinna know ye felt sae strong aboot our Anne,” Tierney said, still probing. In her concern, her reversal to the Scots dialect was natural.
“Anne? Anne?” For a moment it seemed Pearly was disoriented. “Oh, Anne.”
“Yes, Anne. Pearly,” Tierney said, urgent in her concern, “coom on, lass, what’s wrong wi’ ye? Ye act like ye’re in a dream or sum’mat. Are ye feeling a’ reet?”
Pearly was silent, as though thinking. Apparently she made up her mind, whatever the problem may have been. “It’s nothing, like I said. I’ll be a’ right in a minute.” But it was spoken dully, and Tierney was unconvinced.
Surprisingly, there was a knock at the door. Pearly started, hope lighting her eyes. Tierney saw, and puzzlement creased her brow. The knock came again.
“Who—?” Tierney muttered, preparing to rise to her feet.
Pearly beat her to it; with a bound she was off the bed and at the door. With a glad cry she flung open the door. With a blank look she stepped back, the glow fading from her face.
A total stranger stood there. Not much older than Tierney, the young woman smiled engagingly.
“Hello there,” she said, in friendly manner, almost as though she knew them.
And in a way she did. Was she not in the great Northwest for the same purpose? Apparently she was. And did she not feel a true kinship with these newcomers? Obviously she did.
“I’m Fria Klaus,” she said, and seemed to expect an invitation in, a member of the family.
But Tierney was cautious. Who Fria Klaus was and what she wanted was more puzzling than the odd behavior of Pearly Chapel. For now, to add question to question in Tierney’s mind, Pearly had stepped back, face downcast, and had seated herself once again on the bed as though she had no interest whatsoever in the person at the door. A visitor, in the faraway and strange place in which they found themselves, someone come to see them personally, and Pearly couldn’t be roused to interest? It was too much for Tierney.
Casting a frustrated look at Pearly, Tierney turned again to the young woman at the door.
“Yes?” she asked, still cautious. Could this innocent-appearing female be one of the clandestine group of white slavers about which they had been warned? It seemed most unlikely; the girl seemed as straightforward and natural as they themselves. She might indeed have been one of the British Women’s Emigration Society girls—
She was indeed.
She spoke the magic word: Ishbel Mountjoy.
Relief washed over Tierney like a dash of rainwater on a hot and dusty day.
“Come in! Come in!” she said warmly.
Fria Klaus stepped briskly into the room and, at Tierney’s invitation, took one of the two straight-backed chairs; Tierney took the other. Pearly retained her place on the bed; but she could not, now, express disinterest. Another Mountjoy girl! And just when they were so alone!
“Did the Society send you?” Tierney asked, hoping it were true, hoping someone was still looking out for them.
“No. Sorry! Once you leave Toronto with your contract in your hand, you are pretty well on your own,” the stranger said, speaking with a definite accent, Germanic perhaps, perhaps Scandinavian; Tierney and Pearly were too inexperienced with other lands, other cultures, to know. It didn’t matter. The girl was neatly dressed, in what seemed to be a dark uniform, and with a white and snowy apron tied around her substantial middle. She was a strong, plain-looking girl, with an open expression and a straightforward look in her eyes.
Tierney and Pearly looked at the newcomer expectantly, set a
t ease by what they saw.
“I came here about three months ago—”
“To work in Saskatoon?” Tierney asked, obviously finding it hard to believe anyone would come freely for that purpose.
“To work on a farm,” Fria Klaus explained. Then, with a shake of her head, she added, “No one ever came to meet me.”
“Hoots!”
Fria Klaus was taken aback momentarily by the unfamiliar exclamation. But she rallied.
“There was nothing for me to do but to find work, which I did, and I’ve been here ever since.”
“You’re the lass the clerk told us aboot—”
“Yes, and he told me about you. I understand your anxiety about not being met by someone; I understand completely.”
“I guess so. And did no one ever coom to get ye . . . you?”
“Never.”
“And didn’t the Society do anythin’ aboot it?”
“By the time I finally got in touch with them, I’da been dead of starvation if I hadn’t gone ahead and taken care of myself. It turned out, finally, that the farmer and his wife who had contracted for me had serious problems; the man died, in fact. Of course the wife never gave me another thought. Well, it can happen. We’re so far from headquarters . . . there’s no quick way to get word to anyone or from anyone . . . it’ll be wonderful when that new contraption—the telephone—begins to be used—”
“Oh, do ye think it ever will?” Tierney asked, awed. “In these out-of-the-way places?”
“Sure to,” the girl said confidently. “I work, you see, in a hotel near here, and I get all the latest news like that. Salesmen are always coming through, and newspapermen, and so on. Oh, it’s a great way to keep abreast of things. Now you—if you settle on a farm—will be lost just as if you were in the outback of Australia.” The girl spoke with scorn for the ignorant peasant who had nothing better to do than waste talents and time on farm work. Tierney was immediately certain that Fria was a farm girl, finally feeling superior.
“We’re both goin’ to farms,” Tierney said uncertainly.
“I thought there were three of you,” Fria Klaus said, changing the subject.
“One of us has already gone—”
“To a farm, I’ll bet.”
“Weel, aye . . . that is, yes.”
“Poor thing.”
Pearly, for the first time, spoke up. “Why do you say poor fing? She went orf wif a . . .” Pearly seemed to falter, “a very nice young man. She’s luckier’n us, I’d say. Here we sit, nowheres to go—”
“Better to sit here than slave on a farm,” Fria Klaus said with disdain for all such.
“Tell you what,” she continued. “Looks like you are not going to be met, same as me. I bet I can get you jobs . . . or,” doubtfully now, “one of you.”
Fria’s eyes swung from Tierney to Pearly, and back again. Her expression seemed to speak for her: Tierney was her choice. Pearly was too small, too childish, too frail.
Pearly was all backbone; Pearly was all determination. “Not me,” she said stoutly. “I’ve had enough of Lunnon to do me a lifetime, and I’m not stayin’ in no town when there’s a clean, wide farm to live on.”
“What about you?” Fria asked Tierney. “Are you interested?”
“I dinna know; it’s a little early to say, isn’t it? This is only our second day here. Our employers could show up yet, couldn’t they?”
“They could, I suppose,” Fria said grudgingly, obviously having no patience with the system.
“Tell me,” Tierney asked, “what happens to your fee, when you don’t fulfill the contract?”
“Well, in my case, it wasn’t my fault. They just never showed up. It was the Society who finally ran down the problem and informed me what had gone wrong. Of course they offered to find me a new place, but by that time I was at work . . . had to be or I’da starved to death.”
“The fee?” Tierney probed.
“They think I owe it, because they paid my way over here. I dunno. I’m balking at paying it, you may be sure, since they didn’t fill their part of the bargain. We’ll see, I guess. In the meantime I’m working and happier about it than if the old geezer from the farm had showed up. Tell you what, you take another day; if no one comes by then, you’d feel free to do something else, wouldn’t you? You’d almost have to, wouldn’t you?”
“Aye—for sure,” Tierney said. “We canna sit around and do nothin’. If there’s work for only one o’ us, we’ll take it and pay our bills, and the other one will look for somethin’ else. Right, Pearly?”
Pearly seemed lost in a dream. She started. “Oh! Yes, o’ course,” she said quickly. “But,” darkly, “I want to be on a farm, meself. I haf to pray about it.”
“You do that,” Fria Klaus said briskly, rising to her feet. “Now, it’s almost time for me to go to work. I’ll check in with you tomorrow and see what’s happened in the meantime. All right?”
“A’ reet,” Tierney agreed, and obviously gladly. “By the way, I’m Tierney Caulder, from Scotland, and this is Pearly Chapel from Lunnon . . . London.”
The young women shook hands properly. Even Ishbel Mountjoy would have been gratified.
Shutting the door behind their newfound acquaintance, Tierney turned to Pearly, relief on her face and in her voice.
“Well, dinna tell me that wasn’t ordered of the Lord, Pearly. To me it seems like a life raft thrown to a drownin’ person. I dinna feel nearly so adrift—in this sea of grass—as I did a half hour ago.”
Pearly, however, had allowed herself to fall back across the bed. Her eyes were shut, and her lips were moving.
Frustrated again, Tierney rose to her feet, watched Pearly for a moment, and turned away. Pearly was praying, she supposed. Finally, battling anxiety and, in spite of Fria Klaus and her encouraging words, more than half-worried—with Anne gone and Pearly in a passion of prayer—Tierney dug her journal out of her battered traveling bag, seated herself at the small table in the corner of the room, and commenced writing.
Dear Robbie,
Oh, how I wish you were here. I’ve just said good-bye to Anne, and that was bad enough. But now Pearly is upset about something or other. It’s plain to see she is in need of divine help, for she has her eyes shut, and I suppose she is praying. She doesn’t know the prayers of the kirk, Robbie, and just goes ahead and makes up her own. I declare it’s enough to make me question the whole of my upbringing and teaching. Is there anything to all of this that she tells us—about Jesus, about prayer, about being saved?
I feel better just talking to you about it. Helps me look at things in the proper Binkiebrae way!
I declare I don’t know about the future. It’s truly rather frightening, Robbie. Here we sit in the midst of a prairie the size and strangeness of which you wouldn’t believe, unless you are out there somewhere in all that grass. If you are I despair of finding you ever again. Not that I have any hopes of that . . . but my dreams won’t let go of you. Oh, Robbie . . . Robbie . . .
Loneliness, worry, weariness overcame even Tierney’s intrepid spirit. Laying her head on her arms, she let the tears come. Her slim shoulders shook, and the tears puddled on the open journal, blurring Robbie’s name and obliterating Tierney’s silent call to him. Robbie was as lost to her as the penned name disappearing in the watery stain. The realization caused a fresh outburst.
What a sight they were—Pearly, eyes closed, lips moving silently as she lay stretched on the bed, Tierney, lying across the table, weeping. And Anne? Anne saying—
Pearly sat up with a start; Tierney lifted her head, one final tear running down her nose.
“Open the door; let me in.”
Pearly’s eyes met Tierney’s; a blaze lit those pansy eyes with something like joy. Tierney stared blankly at Pearly.
“Tierney, Pearly—it’s me, Anne. Open the door.”
It wasn’t imagination; it was Anne. Anne, or a perfect impostor.
Pearly got to the door before Tierney. Fumbling
with the latch, then the knob, she eventually flung it open. Flung it open to see Anne—big-eyed and white-faced—standing in the hall. Behind her, Anne’s bags in his hands—Frankie Schmidt.
For a moment there was silence. Anne, drooping, tired, pasty-complexioned, seemed transfixed just outside the door. Frank Schmidt, his open face a mix of dismay and helplessness, peered over Anne’s shoulder, wordless, at least for the moment. Anne’s bags dragged in his hands.
Reaching the door a moment behind Pearly, Tierney could see Pearly’s face directly in her line of vision, joyous beyond belief.
Tierney stretched her hand toward her weary friend. Pearly’s hand was stretched—not to Anne, who stumbled into the welcoming circle of Tierney’s arms, but toward the figure still standing in the hall, the square figure of Frank Schmidt.
What a flurry of gasps, of hugs, of comforting pats! One would have thought Anne had been gone for months rather than minutes—sixty of them, to be exact.
With considerable fluster and flutter Anne was transported across the floor and to a chair. Here Tierney, clucking and murmuring wordlessly, seated her friend, removed her hat and helped her off with her gloves, first taking from her grasp the small case she clutched.
Pearly was, in a way, doing the same for Frank Schmidt. She indicated that the traveling bags should be set aside; then, with sympathetic face and gestures, she urged the robust young man toward the other chair.
There they sat, like twin statues, one on either side of the table: Anne, whose dazed look was being replaced with a shamefaced expression, Frank Schmidt continuing to seem more bewildered than anything.
“Weel . . . weel . . .” Tierney began, standing before the two of them, her hands clutched before her, threatening to wring helplessly and disclose her surprise, perhaps her dismay.
