He smiled at his own humor, but I had my answer ready. I’d been thinking about it all the way from Sacramento.
“I want to write about the election in Miracle Springs,” I said. “I’d like to write three articles on it.”
He laughed again. “The election’s being covered by more experienced reporters than there are gold miners in the Mother Lode. If Fremont ever so much as sets foot in the state, there will be a hundred writers waiting. You’d never get near him!”
“I don’t mean that election,” I said. “I mean the Miracle Springs election—for mayor.”
“What could my readers possibly care about that?”
“They’d be interested because a woman is running against the town’s banker. You’ve heard of Parrish Mine and Freight Company.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Run by Almeda Parrish—fine woman, from what I hear. And you say she’s running against the town banker?”
I nodded.
“What’s his name?”
“Franklin Royce.”
He let out a low whistle. “I’ve heard of him too. A slick operator, and with plenty of dough. And you think you can write something my readers will be interested in?”
“You mentioned your women readers liking my articles—don’t you think they’ll want to read about a businesswoman in politics?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, nodding his head slowly. “The thing is unheard of—though everything’s new in California these days.”
After a minute of silence he went on. “Now you understand, Miss Hollister, that if I agree to print something of yours about this election—well, for that matter, anything of yours in the future—”
“Three stories on the election,” I reminded him.
“Whatever—whether it’s the Royce-Parrish story or something else—you understand that I can’t pay you near what I did before. Women only fetch a third or a half a man’s wages, and a girl who isn’t even twenty yet . . . let me see—I doubt I’ll be able to give you over a dollar an article.”
A dollar! I shouted inside. Whether it was my mother Agatha Belle Hollister or my stepmother Almeda Parrish Hollister rising up inside me—or some of both of them!—what Pa called my Belle blood started to get riled. Why should the exact words that might have been worth three or four dollars a week ago be worth only one dollar now? Because he had found out that I was a lady instead of a man, and a young lady besides? It didn’t seem at all fair!
But before either of us said another word, the door of Mr. Kemble’s office opened behind me.
Chapter 25
A Familiar Face
Into the editor’s office walked a tall young man, carrying a stack of papers. He wore a cap tilted to the right down over his forehead, which kept me from being able to see his eyes at first, though there was immediately something familiar about the way he walked and the few blond curls coming out from beneath his cap.
The instant he spoke I remembered the voice as if I had just heard it yesterday!
“Mr. Kemble,” he said, “I’ve got those files you asked me to dig up on—”
He stopped, apparently just as surprised to see me as I was him.
“If I didn’t know better . . .” he said, pausing to look me over from head to foot. I couldn’t think of a single word to utter as I stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open.
“It is the girl from off in the backwoods gold country!” he finally exclaimed. “Are you still trying to get into the reporting game?”
“You two know each other, O’Flaridy?” asked a bewildered Mr. Kemble.
“We ran into each other a couple years back, though I can’t remember your name,” he added, looking again at me.
“Robin O’Flaridy, meet Corrie Belle Hollister,” said Mr. Kemble.
“Hollister, that’s it!” he said. “Miracle Springs, right?”
I smiled and nodded. “It looks as though you’ve moved up a few notches from delivering papers yourself,” I said. “Are you really a reporter now?”
He shifted his weight onto his other foot, as if he was embarrassed for the editor to hear me ask the question, and the pause gave me a quick chance to assess the changes that had come over the first acquaintance I had ever made in San Francisco.
In the last three years, Robin O’Flaridy had shot up, and stood a good head taller than me. But he was still lean, with a smooth face and blond hair, though a bit darker than before. And his voice, though not boyish, was still high-pitched for a man. All that made it just as hard to tell his age as the first time I had seen him as a scrappy kid delivering papers and hanging around hotels. I figured him for twenty or twenty-one, and he certainly looked as at home and comfortable in the offices of the Alta as he had in the lobby of the Oriental Hotel. Maybe he hadn’t been exaggerating as much as I thought back then about his association with the paper. He seemed every bit the newsman now.
“Of course I’m a reporter,” he answered, a little defensively I thought. “I told you that back then.”
“Don’t listen to a word he tells you, Miss Hollister,” laughed Mr. Kemble. “To hear him talk, you’d think the Alta couldn’t possibly put out a single edition without him. But he does occasionally bring me something I can use.”
Robin’s neck reddened slightly. He tried to get the conversation off himself. “So I take it you’re here because you still hope to write for a newspaper someday, eh? But I can tell you from experience, just being a pretty face won’t get you anywhere with this editor!” He grinned and threw Mr. Kemble a wink.
“Now don’t get too cocky, O’Flaridy!” said the editor. “Miss Hollister has already written several articles for us—a couple of them have appeared back East. You may have seen the name C.B. Hollister.”
If Robin was surprised, even halfway impressed, he wasn’t about to let it show.
“What do you know about that!” he said. “So you’ve moved up from that other rag from the sticks! Good going, Hollister!” He gave me a slap on the back.
Now I remembered what had so irritated me about Robin O’Flaridy before. I smiled, but my heart wasn’t in it. My Belle blood was flowing again!
“Careful, O’Flaridy, she may be taking your job someday! I was just about to offer her three articles on an election they’re having up her way,” said Mr. Kemble. “That’s besides the two I’ve already got in the files. Can’t recall you ever bringing me good writing quite so fast as that.” He was kidding Robin O’Flaridy, that much I could tell from his tone, but whether he was being serious about my writing or making fun of me—that I couldn’t tell.
“Three articles, huh!” he said. “That is something! I guess I better get my pencil busy. I can’t let some girl cub reporter from out in the hills of the Mother Lode show me up!”
He set the files on Mr. Kemble’s desk and then turned to leave. “See you around, Hollister!”
“Well, I think that about concludes our business too,” the editor said to me before O’Flaridy was even out the door. “A dollar an article, as agreed. When will I see the first piece?”
“Uh . . . in a week or two,” I said, trying to get my mind back on what I had come for and off the surprise interruption by Robin O’Flaridy.
“That sounds fine.”
Mr. Kemble stood up behind his desk and offered his hand. I shook it.
“Good day, Miss Hollister,” he said.
I turned and left his office, my mind half numb from all that had gone on inside, part of me thinking of the things I had intended to say to Mr. Kemble but hadn’t. The whole interview now seemed awkward, even though I had accomplished what I’d wanted—he now knew who I really was, and he had agreed to let me write about the election. But somehow I still felt unsettled inside.
“Hey, Hollister, where you staying?” said the familiar voice of Robin O’Flaridy from where he was leaning against the wall of the hallway, apparently waiting for me.
I told him, then began walking toward the door
where I had entered the building. He pushed himself off the wall, skipped a couple of steps to catch up with me, then continued to walk alongside me.
“That older lady with you again?” he asked.
“No.”
“You came to the big city alone, eh?”
“That’s right.”
“And how long you planning to be around?”
I said I didn’t know. To be honest, I had thought about remaining for another day or two. It was such an adventure being there on my own, I wanted to see a little of the city. However, I wasn’t so sure I wanted Robin O’Flaridy escorting me around—even with his blue eyes, blond curls, and air of confidence, as if he considered the whole city and everything in it his own personal domain. I suppose most nineteen-year-old girls would have been dazzled and flattered. But something about his attentions caused me to squirm.
He started in telling me all about his latest escapades as he moved closer to my side. I felt his hand slip through my arm. Immediately I knew my cheeks were turning red.
“Say, how about I come over to Miss Sandy Loyd Bean’s Boarding House tonight,” he said; “and you and me, we’ll go out to dinner someplace, and then I’ll show you San Francisco by night?”
We were just about to the door. He opened it for me with his free hand, then continued on outside with me.
“What do you say, Corrie?”
“I . . . I don’t know—I’d made plans to eat with Miss Bean. I told her I’d be back for dinner. Besides, I couldn’t possibly go out with you—alone!”
“Aw, forget Miss Bean. You can eat a home-cooked meal anytime! And who needs a chaperon? Who’d ever know about it, anyway?” He laughed. “When else are you going to have an invitation to go out to a San Francisco restaurant with one of the city’s well-known journalists? You’re a good-looking girl and I’m not too bad-looking a fella, and it just seems right that we ought to spend some time together, you being here alone like you are. Especially with us both in the same profession now. What harm could there be in one evening of fun?”
“I really don’t think I ought—”
“Listen,” he said, cutting me off as I hailed a horse-drawn cab for myself from the corner of the block, “you talk to your Sandy Bean and put your mind at ease. I know she won’t mind your not being there once you explain that you ran into an old friend who invited you out for the evening. I’ll be by at seven o’clock.”
Without giving me an opportunity to say anything further, he took my hand, helped me up onto the cab seat, gave the cab driver fifty cents and told him where to take me, then turned back toward me, smiled, tipped his cap, and as the horse’s hoofs clopped off, said, “See you tonight!” He turned and pranced off down the street, obviously pleased with himself.
Chapter 26
What to Do?
I tried to see some of the city during the afternoon, and even took a cab out to Point Lobos where Miss Bean told me the Pacific Mail steamship was due to reach the Bay with letters and newspapers from the East. But all day I was distracted by thoughts of Robin T. O’Flaridy! There was such a battle going on inside my head that I could hardly enjoy myself.
One side of me kept thinking that I ought to throw caution to the wind and go with him. I imagined putting on my nice cream dress with the pink lace around it. He was a decent-looking young man—he’d been right about that. And we were both interested in newspapers and writing. And how many opportunities was I going to have like this? He had talked about showing me the town and it was bound to be fun.
I could hardly believe that the thought of marriage would cross my mind at a time like this! I’d never in my life thought seriously of getting married! But now all at once I couldn’t keep the idea from entering my brain. I always figured Ma was right about me not being the kind of girl that fellas would stand in line to marry. Maybe I ought to take the few opportunities that come along and not let them pass by.
Why shouldn’t I go with Robin? I might have a good time, and he probably wasn’t such a bad fellow. It might be years before another young man took an interest in me. And even if he wasn’t a Christian, maybe I could do him some good, or even talk to him about some of the things Mrs. Parrish and I talked about.
But the other side of me said something entirely different. I couldn’t help thinking of the people who mattered to me, and what they might think. What if I did go out to dinner with him? Would I be proud to tell Almeda or would I be embarrassed? I couldn’t help wondering if Robin T. O’Flaridy was the kind of person I wanted her to know I had been with. Was he a good person, the kind of young man she would respect and admire? And what would Jesus think to see me alone with someone I hardly knew?
The more I thought on it, the more doubts I had about what they might think. If Mrs. Parrish walked in on us together at some fancy restaurant, I would be embarrassed. He wasn’t her kind of person—unselfish, kind, and thoughtful of others. In fact, he’d always struck me as a little egotistical and conniving. That certainly wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to marry, if I ever did get married. If I didn’t think enough of him to figure he was worth marrying, and if I would have been embarrassed to have Almeda see me with him, then what possible reason could I have for accepting his invitation? To accept would not be true to what I was thinking and feeling inside. Something about him made me very uneasy.
When Mrs. Parrish and I had first come to San Francisco, the desk clerk had said, “Nobody even knows where the boy lives. He’s always on the street looking for some likely target to fleece.” Robin just delivered papers, but he had told me he was a reporter. He wasn’t a very honest person.
Robin T. O’Flaridy and I were different sorts of people. I couldn’t believe he was a very godly young man. What would he say if I told him about how I prayed every day to obey God more and to be true?
He’d probably laugh. Or if he didn’t laugh, at least he’d probably make some comment like, “Well, all that religious stuff is okay for girls and women. But I’m a man and I can make it just fine on my own without all that stuff about God.”
Was that someone I wanted to spend time with, see San Francisco with? We’d be talking together and smiling and trying to have a good time, but our real selves would be miles apart. That didn’t seem right, didn’t seem honest or truthful, didn’t seem any way to have a friendship between a young man and a young woman—pretending on the surface to be people we really weren’t. There was really no decision to make. I couldn’t even say I actually wanted to be with him. To go with him would be compromising my convictions.
By the time evening came, I had made up my mind.
He came to the door promptly at seven. I heard the knock, and my stomach lurched with a queasy feeling. I said a quick prayer as I went to answer it.
“You ready?” he asked. He stood there dressed up in a coat and tie, flowers in his hand. “These are for you,” he said, holding them out toward me.
A giant knot suddenly tightened in my stomach. This was awful! A hundred doubts shot through my mind about the decision I had come to earlier. Maybe I had completely misjudged him. He probably wasn’t such a bad young man after all! Yet in spite of my last-minute misgivings, I found coming out of my mouth the words I had been practicing to myself for the last hour:
“I . . . I’ve decided . . .” I stammered.
“Decided? Decided what?”
“I’ve decided that I really shouldn’t go,” I finally blurted out. “I’m . . . I’m very sorry.”
He stood staring at me blankly, as if he hadn’t heard.
“I don’t believe it,” he said at last. “You can’t be serious?” I could see him getting angry.
“I’m really sorry. I—I—just feel I shouldn’t . . . And I never really said I would go with you.”
“But I had so much planned for us. I’ve dressed up and brought you flowers,” he said, glancing at the bouquet still in his hand. “I just can’t believe you’d do this to me!”
I didn’t know what to say. I fe
lt dreadful.
He just stood there staring at me, his face gradually filling with color—not the red of embarrassment, but of anger.
“Well then, enjoy your ridiculous meal in this dull boardinghouse, and your evening alone! You’ll probably sit in your room reading some boring book when you could have been having the time of your life out in the city!”
With a last spiteful, glaring look, he spun around and started to leave. Then he noticed the flowers in his hand. With an angry motion, he threw them into the dirt in the street. Then he looked back at the door.
“But just don’t you come crawling to me when you’re a lonely old spinster!” he said vengefully. “Or when you realize you can’t make it as a reporter without the help of people like me. Robin T. O’Flaridy doesn’t get made a fool of twice!”
He strode off down the street with long steps, and never looked back.
I shut the door slowly and turned back into the boardinghouse. Then I ran back up to my room and lay down on the bed and started to cry. All I could think was how hard it had been to refuse him when I saw his face so alive with expectation. I had almost given in and walked out the door with him. Yet even as I lay there crying, I knew that something inside me had been strengthened, and that I would look back on this moment as one more marker on the road of my spiritual life.
Robin was right. I did spend the rest of the evening alone in my room, mostly reading. I’d brought along a book of Mr. Fremont’s about his exploration of Oregon and Northern California in 1843–44. Since he was running for President, I was interested in his early years in the West.
My adventure in San Francisco had lost its excitement. I had never in my life felt so lonely and far away from everybody I loved. But still I knew I’d done the right thing.
Chapter 27
On the Trail of the Truth Page 15