“Oh no, don’t go to that expense,” Belinda protested. They’d already done so much, she couldn’t allow them to pay fifty cents for a doctor’s call. She assured her host, “It isn’t uncommon for Malinda to sleep a lot—her weakened heart seems to require a great deal of rest. I’m sure her adventure of wandering the countryside for nearly a week wore her out.” She shook her head, amazed. “I would never have imagined her walking as far as she did. The fire must have really frightened her.”
“Ja, I expect it would frighten most anyone.” Peter stroked his beard, looking at Belinda with a puzzled expression. “I have wondered what reason she gave for being in the attic.”
Belinda sighed. “Malinda took to spending time up there after Mama died. I stored Mama’s and Papa’s clothes in the big Russian chest, so she would sit beside the chest and . . .” She shrugged. “Remember them, I suppose. Mama did the same thing after Papa died.”
Summer’s lips puckered. “What a dreary occupation.”
Belinda forced her voice past the knot of sorrow filling her throat. “I think sitting in the dark attic had a negative affect on Mama’s heart. In a way, it’s a relief that the clothes and trunk were ruined. Now Malinda doesn’t have the opportunity to spend her time mourning over a box of clothes.”
“And I am grateful she is now here, and she is safe,” Peter added.
Closing her eyes briefly, Belinda offered a silent prayer of thanks that Malinda had been found unharmed. All thoughts of her sister being a burden had fled the moment of discovery. Only relief and gratitude filled her heart. She would keep Malinda close and, with the help of the Ollenburgers, lead her out of the deep mourning in which she had immersed herself.
Belinda pushed herself out of the chair. “While Malinda is resting, I believe I’ll go to my room and write a letter to Thomas. I presume you’ll have one ready to mail soon? Perhaps we could put them in one envelope and save the postage.”
Peter nodded. “Ja, both Summer and me have written.” He chuckled. “A very fat envelope our Thomas will get!” Suddenly a frown creased his brow. “I was glad he decided to spend time in prayer to seek God’s will, but I wonder what choice he makes about the new job.”
“I’ve been praying for him to know the right thing to do,” Belinda said.
With an approving smile, Peter replied, “I thank you for your prayers. Prayers avail much.” The smile faded to an expression of uncertainty. “But still I wonder . . .”
Summer took his hand. “Whatever he does, he’ll choose wisely. Our son knows God’s voice.”
Peter’s face relaxed. “Ja, ja, for sure he does. But”—a sheepish grin climbed his cheek—“is it all right if I hope he decides to come back here?”
Summer laughed lightly. “That’s perfectly all right. A part of me wishes for that, too. But if he comes, what a full house we will have!”
Belinda’s heart caught. Without another word, she turned and hurried to the little room off the kitchen. Sitting on Thomas’s bed, she looked around the cramped space, suddenly realizing that if what they hoped for came true, she would be uprooted again. There wouldn’t be room for her and Malinda if Thomas resided under this roof again.
She slumped forward, her heart torn in two. Although she had longed for Thomas’s return to Kansas, she now realized seeing that desire fulfilled meant the loss of something that had come to mean a great deal to her. No longer would she be an honorary family member, but merely a neighbor and friend. Unless— A hopeful thought brought her upright. If Thomas returned and—her cheeks blazed with heat—courted her, and they were to wed, she would always be an Ollenburger.
The powerful, selfish desire drove her to her knees. “Father, You have a good plan for me,” she whispered against her laced fists. “If it’s Your will, let the Ollenburgers . . . including Thomas . . . be a part of that plan. . . .”
A finger of sunlight reaching through a slit in his curtains awakened Thomas Monday morning. He rubbed his eyes, groaning as he fought to come fully awake. His night had been restless, the dreams confusing. Images of Daphne competed with those of people from Gaeddert, all calling out strange commands, most of which didn’t make sense.
But one command—uttered by Grossmutter in Low German— still echoed through Thomas’s head: “Jie doone waut woare fullerene fäl bast.”
Do that which will accomplish the most good.
The most good . . . Thomas sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stared at the heavy curtains backlit by the morning sun. He’d prayed repeatedly for an answer to what to do next. Could the answer be within his great-grandmother’s message? What would accomplish the most good—returning to Hillsboro, or remaining in Boston?
And suddenly, as if the answer was a puzzle piece dropping into place, he knew what would do the most good. Learning to be a news reporter. Expressing the truth in his articles. Articles that would reach the homes of many people.
Rising, he crossed to the window and flung the curtains wide. Sunlight flooded the room, filling him with a sense of purpose. “Ah,” he whispered merrily, “the light of truth.”
His spirits high, he washed, dressed, ate a quick breakfast of bread and jam, and then hailed a cab to go to the Beacon. He hoped Mr. Severt hadn’t changed his mind about giving him the opportunity to report news stories for the paper. When the cab passed the telegraph office, Thomas called out, “Stop!”
The driver drew the horse to a halt.
“I need to send a telegram. Will you wait for me?” After the man nodded, Thomas dashed into the office. He’d promised to let Pa know what he decided. If he knew his father, Pa’d be stewing. It was best to inform him in the quickest manner. He dictated a straightforward message: “Staying to report the truth. Long letter later. Love to all. Thomas.”
He smiled the remainder of the way to the newspaper office. The assurance that came from answering the call on one’s heart was invigorating! His arms tingled from excitement. Or maybe, he chuckled to himself, the nip of the October breeze sent the prickle of gooseflesh over his arms. Whatever the cause, he felt alert and ready to take the publishing world by storm.
“To the top floor,” he instructed the elevator operator, then whistled as the man tugged the cables that set the car in motion. He waved to the errand boy as he strode down the hallway. Outside Severt’s door, he took a moment to straighten his collar, smooth the front of his jacket, and square his shoulders. Then he raised his fist and gave two blunt thumps to the door’s casing.
“Come in.”
Thomas opened the door and entered, crossing quickly to stand in front of his boss’s desk. The man looked at him without speaking, his face expressionless. Thomas met Severt’s gaze directly and said, “I’d like to become a reporter.”
A sly smile formed on Severt’s face, but he smoothed his finger over his mustache, erasing the smirk. He rose. “Good choice.” Rounding his desk, he passed Thomas, marched to his open door, and bellowed down the hall. “Boy! Get Pardue up here immediately!” He returned to his desk and sat, waving his hand at the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “Sit.”
Thomas followed his direction, perching on the chair’s edge with his hands braced on his thighs. Eagerness to get started made his leg muscles twitch.
“For now, you’ll remain in your office. I will still give you the occasional editorial for review since I don’t plan to fill your current position until I see how well you do as a reporter.”
“That’s fine, sir.” Thomas had expected a period of testing.
“I’m putting you under the tutelage of Dean Pardue. He’s been with the Beacon since the first issue of its release nearly twenty-five years ago, and he knows the ins and outs of reporting better than any man in Massachusetts. I’d wager you won’t find a better teacher on a university campus.”
At that moment, a clatter of footsteps intruded. The errand boy rushed in, followed by a tall, reed-thin man with gray, overgrown muttonchop whiskers and a sparse tuft of gray hair
shooting toward his forehead from his nearly bald scalp. The boy pointed mutely at the man and then, his mission complete, spun and hustled back out.
Severt gave a lazy nod. “Good morning, Pardue.”
Thomas shot to his feet. This was Dean Pardue? Thomas had previously seen the man in the halls but assumed by his unkempt appearance that he performed janitorial chores. This scarecrow-like man didn’t fit Thomas’s expectation of a seasoned reporter.
He hoped his face didn’t show the surprise he felt.
The man’s sharp, nearly black eyes settled on Thomas. “This the boy you told me about?”
Severt gave a brusque nod. “He’s the one.”
Thomas shook his tutor’s hand. Although they stood eye to eye, he outweighed the older man by at least a hundred pounds. Despite his fragile appearance, however, Dean Pardue possessed the ability to make Thomas squirm with his steady, seeking gaze.
The handshake complete, Pardue stepped back and looked Thomas up and down. The unabashed appraisal made Thomas’s neck burn, but he stood with his shoulders square and his chin up, refusing to cower beneath the inspection.
At the conclusion of his perusal, a smile formed behind Par-due’s bushy whiskers. He nodded in Severt’s direction. “Yup. I reckon he’ll do.”
Severt ordered, “Dean, take Ollenburger along on your rounds today. This week, he’ll observe only.” Swinging his gaze to Thomas, he barked, “Ollenburger, watch and listen. At the end of the week, if Dean thinks you’re ready, we’ll let you use his notes to produce an article. No by-line, though. That’ll come when you’re on your own.”
Thomas decided he’d ask Pardue what was meant by “no byline” later and simply nodded.
“All right, then. Go.”
Pardue headed for the door, and Thomas trotted after him. The man’s long-legged stride reminded Thomas of a stork’s gait. He imagined Pardue left a lot of people behind, but Thomas had no trouble matching him pace for pace.
They stepped into the elevator, and Pardue reached inside his jacket to remove a small pad of paper and a well-gnawed pencil. He stuck the unsharpened end of the pencil in his mouth and patted his palm with the pad. “Gonna be a busy couple weeks, boy,” Pardue warned, speaking around the stub of pencil.
“Oh?” Thomas’s heart rate increased in anticipation. “Are we working on a big story?”
“Biggest one in four years,” Pardue replied. He popped the pencil out long enough to grin. “The campaign, boy. We’re covering the presidential election.”
27
DAPHNE, WHY ARE YOU HIDING in here?” Mother’s fretful voice interrupted Daphne’s reading.
Daphne had thought the fringed chaise tucked into the window-surrounded alcove of the library a comfortable, secluded spot. Since Sunday afternoon she had spent every free moment reading the Bible she had found high on a shelf, tucked behind two other books.
Daphne repeated the statement she’d used yesterday in response to Mother’s frustrated query. “I am reading.”
“Still?”
At Mother’s shocked tone, Daphne snapped the Bible closed over her thumb, but she didn’t shift from her reclining position. “Yes, Mother, still.”
Mother sniffed, folding her arms and tapping her toe. “I would think you would have had your fill of that by now. Surely there is something else you could do with your time.”
Daphne shrugged, riffling the page edges with her thumb. “It’s not as if I have any pressing needs to which to attend.” She went on in a pensive tone. “I haven’t a job, or a home of my own to oversee, or even a hobby that requires my attention each day. My life, Mother, is frightfully dull . . . and without purpose.”
Mother pursed her lips tightly and glared down at Daphne. Her toe continued its incessant, annoying tap—one of Mother’s many nervous habits. “So you intend to liven your existence by secluding yourself in the corner of the library and reading the days away.”
Flopping the Bible open, Daphne said, “Yes.”
A sigh that spoke volumes came from Mother’s lips, but Daphne chose to ignore it. When she returned her focus to the book in her lap, Mother spun with a swirl of skirts and left the room, sliding the pocket doors closed behind her. Daphne smiled in satisfaction, bent her knees to prop up the Bible, and picked up where she had left off.
This book, she had discovered, contained a confusing mosaic of stories, genealogies, and advice. When she’d finally located it Sunday afternoon, she had flipped through, reading random bits here and longer passages there. Unable to grasp meaning by the slipshod method, she had decided it would be best to start at the beginning and read through to the end.
She had been reading for four days, whenever she could sneak away, and even though she hadn’t yet discovered the answer to the question she sought—Why is God so important to Thomas?—she admitted some of the stories were intriguing. Floods and giants, wars and escaping slaves, good and evil kings, and God-bestowed blessings and curses. Some of the stories even reminded her of the fairy tales Mother had read to her when she was small.
She admitted little understanding of the rules the people followed— festivals and monument-building and sacrificing animals to experience pardon for breaking laws. A shudder shook her as she considered shedding the blood of a helpless lamb or pigeon. And to do it again and again to cover each infraction! How could the people bear to perform such an atrocious act against innocent animals?
And yet there was the other side, the tender side . . . God’s protection, God’s provision, God’s endless mercy toward people who, quite often, seemed bent on neglecting Him. God required much of His people, but He also gave much to His people. Was that why Thomas put God first? Because he didn’t want to emulate the foolish Israelites who consistently tried the patience of God and reaped His judgment? Could it be fear of judgment that motivated him?
The Bible was divided into two disproportionate halves—the Old Testament and the New Testament. A quick peek revealed she was close to halfway through the Old Testament. By the end of the week—if people left her alone and let her read—she hoped to be through the Old Testament and would be able to start fresh with the New Testament next week.
An odd rush of excitement swept over her. She pondered its source but could find no reason why accomplishing the entire read-through of this book was so exciting. Yet she couldn’t deny the eagerness to proceed. At least, she concluded, reading took her mind off of her aching heart. She shifted to get more comfortable against the mound of pillows behind her back, crossed her ankles, and resumed reading.
“Practice time, Tom.” Dean Pardue plopped a stack of nearly illegible notes onto Thomas’s desk. “Pick ’em apart, organize ’em, then write me four comprehensive, fact-filled paragraphs.” He pointed a wiry finger at Thomas. “No opinions in there. This isn’t a place to insert your viewpoint. Just facts.” The man strode out of the office.
Thomas set to work without comment. Over the past few days, he had learned Dean Pardue was a tougher taskmaster than Mr. Severt had been. Pardue could nitpick and chide and criticize until Thomas was ready to throw the pages in the man’s face and exclaim he didn’t want to be a reporter after all. But one thing kept him silent and working—the desire to do that which would accomplish the most good.
If he could prove to Severt and Pardue that he had what it took to be a respected reporter, they might let him write one article about the presidential race prior to Election Day. With that opportunity, he would lay out the facts he had been collecting on his own concerning Thomas Watson of the Populist Party.
Politics often involved a game of one-upmanship, the goal being to make one’s own candidate appear better than all others. For some candidates, the strategy included slinging dirt at the opponent. Thomas knew from experience an eyeful of dust hindered vision. So slinging dirt, he concluded, kept constituents from seeing the slinger’s faults. He didn’t much care for the practice, having been taught to be truthful in all circumstances.
“As fo
r me,” he mumbled as he drew an arrow from one scribbled note to another, indicating the placement of the information in his final draft, “if given the chance, I’ll not fling dirt, but I’ll certainly muddy the waters for some who think they know it all.”
He considered the personal testimonies he’d gathered concerning Watson’s treatment of specific groups of people. Watson had little tolerance for anyone whose religious denomination or skin color differed from his own. A person with such a limited circle of acceptance had no business pursuing leadership for a country whose population included a rainbow of skin tones and which proclaimed religious freedom. If Watson became the United States’ next president, it could be detrimental to the unity of the country.
Although Thomas still approved the stance of the Populist Party concerning the Grange and its support of the farming community, he could not approve the party’s chosen candidate. He could not stand quietly by and allow wrong to have its way.
He was breaking with Mennonite tradition by involving himself in political issues, and his father would frown if he knew what Thomas was doing. He might be an adult, but displeasing Pa still gave him pause. Even so, he needed to follow his own conscience this time, and his conscience clearly directed him to speak the truth about Watson before voters entered the booths on November 8. Less than two weeks away . . .
Suddenly his heart skittered to thoughts of Daphne, and the plans he had made to ask for her hand at the close of the campaign. The deep ache of missing her hadn’t departed, although he had an element of peace—he knew he’d done the right thing by withdrawing from his relationship with an unbeliever.
Pa had wisely waited for Summer to recognize her need of a Savior before declaring his love for her. Thomas, as his father modeled, would follow the biblical admonition to avoid being unequally yoked. But his desire to shed the light of truth concerning God’s love for Daphne, as well as God’s instruction for her to love her neighbor as herself, hadn’t dimmed. When the campaign ended, he wouldn’t ask for her hand, but he would sit down and share his heart with her.
Where the Heart Leads Page 22