by Jane Peart
When, at last, the time is nine o’clock at night, after dinner dishes are done, pots and pans scrubbed, and the kitchen put to rights, this young overworked girl drags herself up the three flights of stairs to her small unheated attic room. She is almost too tired to undress and get into bed. Wearily she pulls the tattered quilt about her shuddering shoulders. A tear or two rolls out from under her closed eyes as she whispers a prayer and thinks longingly of her old granny in that faraway Irish cottage where she once knew caring and affection so long ago.
Have the well-to-do women who hire these young girls to slave for them in their prosperous homes no shame? No compassion? Do they ever even think of the drafty rooms at the top of the house, where the wind howls through broken glass, where a single blanket and thin quilt are considered adequate covers throughout our wintry nights?
Is it not time for us, who have been blessed in so many ways, to share our providence with those less fortunate, who come to our country seeking a better life?
Friday, the day after the column came out, Mindy went to work not quite sure what to expect. She thought she detected some new respect in the eyes of the male reporters. There seemed to be an unspoken but apparent admiration in their glances. Still, it was the editor’s approval she most hoped for and it came with the simple laconic statement.
“Well, you’ve done it this time, McClaren. Betcha we’ll have all the benevolent societies in the city dancin’ an Irish jig over this one.”
Mindy went to her desk with a confident step. Surely she had proved herself. Certainly Jamison would assign her to another story. She started opening her morning’s mail and worked diligently for the rest of the morning.
It wasn’t until she had left for the day and was on her way home to Aunt Jen’s that Judson’s small buggy pulled to a stop alongside her. He looked white-faced and very, very angry. Before Mindy could say a word, he said tightly, “Please get in, Mindy, I want to talk to you.”
Surprised, she climbed in. Staring straight ahead, Judson gave his horse a flick with his whip and they started off.
“What is it, Judson? Has something happened? Is something wrong?”
Judson finally swerved into the town park and brought the horse and buggy to a halt, then turned to her furiously.
“Would you like to explain this?” He brought the newspaper from out of his coat pocket, slamming it on the leather seat between them.
“I didn’t think it needed to be explained,” Mindy declared. “If you’ve read it, you know what I was trying to say.”
“Don’t you ever think of anything or anyone but yourself?
” “What do you mean? That whole article shows that I do think of others—those pitiful little Irish girls, for example.”
“You used them for your own benefit. They’re poor, ignorant girls. Hardly literate. They would never have said all this. You’ve exploited them for your own motives.”
“If any one has exploited them its employers like your—” Mindy stopped abruptly before finishing the sentence. But the unspoken words hung there.
“Yes, Mindy. I’m, sure there’s enough blame to go around. But you’ve also abused my mother’s hospitality. While you were a guest in her house you went behind her back, sneaked upstairs, got those poor dumb girls to spill out a lot of nonsense that you then took and twisted to make it sound like—”
“Slavery? Well, that’s practically what it is. Whether you think it’s exaggerated or not—which it isn’t—if my story gives just one employer pause about how they treat their servants or if it improves the condition of one or two of these girls, that will be worth whatever I did to get the story.” She paused breathless. “I’m a reporter, Judson, whether you like it or not. I saw an injustice, a story worth telling. So I told it. That’s what I do.”
“Then, you don’t think you owe my mother an apology?”
“An apology?” Mindy was taken aback. For the first time she realized her relationship with Judson and his family was in trouble.
“Yes, an apology. My mother isn’t an unkind person. But you’ve made her sound like a monster,” Judson said. “There’s another side to every story. Have you thought of that? Or maybe you didn’t want to tell it. Don’t you realize women who hire these uneducated immigrants at least provide them work and a place to live? Otherwise most of them would end up on the street or worse.”
“And that’s something to be proud of?” Mindy’s tone was scathing. “I was simply putting myself in those girls’ shoes and showing it for what it is. Their lives are like prisons. No, Judson, I don’t think I owe your mother or any woman who employs these girls an apology. I think they ought to mend their ways and improve their maids’ living and working conditions.”
“Does that justify you spying on my parents household? Did you bribe those girls? Promise them they’d become celebrities with your sensational yellow journalism.” Judson’s tone was bitter.
Insulted at the comparison he was making, Mindy said coldly, “Whether you like it or not, whether you accept it or not, I’m a reporter, Judson.. A reporter follows a story that’s worth telling.”
Judson’s mouth settled into a grim line. Several conflicting emotions crossed his face. He wasn’t a heartless young man. He rapped the newspaper a couple more times then said rather lamely, “Well, maybe it’s all a tempest in a teapot. By next week, it’ll blow over and it’ll all be forgotten.”
“Forgotten?” Mindy flared, “I don’t want it to be forgotten. I published it so people would know just what it’s like to be young, alone in the world, without resources, forced to earn a living under difficult circumstances. I want people to remember, to know me for writing this. My editor was pleased. Why aren’t you?”
Caught between his mother’s humiliation and the ideals of the woman he loved, Judson hesitated, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m disappointed in you, Judson. I thought you’d be proud of me. I guess I was wrong.”
Judson flushed. “Well, of course, I am, in a way. It’s just that—”
“Never mind. I can see you really aren’t. You wish I’d never written anything. You don’t care that I’m at last getting some recognition for my hard work.”
“That’s just it, Mindy. You don’t have to work or prove anything to me. I’ll support you and your whole family if it came to that. You can give up that job, the writing. I just want us to be married.”
“Married? I think not, Judson. Sad but true, my story has made something crystal clear. You don’t respect me or my work.” Hot tears blurred Mindy’s eyes.
“I love you, Mindy. I’m sorry if—”
She wiped her eyes with her fingers, shook her head, “No, Judson, if you truly loved me, you’d want me to be happy, to do the work I’m capable of, but you don’t. You want me to sit in a pretty house somewhere, sip tea from a china cup, and give parties. Well, that’s not for me. It never will be. Maybe I was wrong to ever let you think it could work out for us. . . . I see now, it can’t.”
“Don’t say that, Mindy. I do want you to be happy, I want us to be happy—”
“How could we ever be happy together? We don’t want the same things of our life.”
Judson tossed the newspaper down and reached into his vest pocket. “Here, I’ve been carrying this around for weeks.” He brought out a small, purple velvet jeweler’s box and held it out. “Please, Mindy, accept it. More than anything in the world, I want us to be engaged.” He pressed the spring and the lid flew open. A ruby solitaire flanked by two diamonds sparkled from a gray plush cushion.
Mindy blinked. Then shook her head sadly.
“No, Judson. I can’t accept it. I can’t marry you. We’d just make each other unhappy.”
“You can’t mean that, Mindy. We love each other. Right from the first I knew you were the girl for me, no matter what.”
Mindy shook her head. “No, Judson. Now, please take me home.”
Judson tried to argue Mindy out of her conviction. But
she maintained stubbornly that it was over. They would never be engaged or married.
Crestfallen, defeated Judson finally turned the horse around and silently they drove back to her aunt’s house.
“Don’t get out, Judson. Don’t see me to the door.”
Mindy got down from the buggy and, without looking back, went into the house. When she closed the door she felt a deep sadness.
Her mother was remarrying, Farell was recovering and content in North Carolina, her expected engagement to Judson Powell was broken, what would she do now? Ironically, the headline she had chosen for her first explosive column “What’s a Girl To Do?” came into her mind. Now, she was the one facing that very same question.
As it turned out, the Powells were not alone in their resentment over her most recent article. Every woman in town who had ever employed a hired girl or an Irish immigrant servant felt Dixie Dillon had overstepped the bounds of good taste. Whereas letters about the factory girls had been mostly positive, the Chronicle was suddenly besieged with negative letters. Most of them stated the same argument Judson had used in defense of his mother, that unless these unfortunate girls worked as domestics, some of them would end up on the streets.
Jamison, who valued community goodwill and opinion, gruffly told Mindy to “soft-pedal the sob-sister stuff” for a while. “Just until people calm down a little.”
Indignant, Mindy wondered if she had been hoisted on her own petard. The very boldness of her column had landed her not on the front pages of the newspaper with her own by-line on important news stories but perhaps relegated forever giving advice to the lovelorn.
Chapter 9
A week went by, then two. Mindy was besieged by bouquets of flowers, with notes attached, from Judson. But nothing changed her mind. She was more and more convinced she had done the right thing. Whatever her future was to be, Judson Powell and the life he offered were not to be part of it! It wasn’t his fault. She was who she was. She had just realized they were oil and water. No matter how they might try, it wouldn’t mix.
It was a scary decision for her. Judson had always been there, waiting in the wings, so to speak, while she struggled to get a foothold in the profession she coveted. Now it became clear that it was a career that did not readily accommodate marriage—at least for a woman. Unfair but true.
Giving up the dream of writing was impossible. Mindy felt her ability was a God-given gift, just as much as being a musician or an artist or a chef. Even Scriptures upheld that “a man’s gift makes a place for him.”
She knew it was up to her to develop her gift and to use it to bring about something good. Judson didn’t understand that, nor could she explain it to him. She felt the urgency, the compulsion to write her reactions to what she observed. Her empathy, sensitivity, and intuition were instinctive. Although she didn’t know how, they were just there, available to her when she wrote.
In spite of the success of her column, Jamison had not given her status or pay of a full-time reporter. Even after her last column, Mindy sensed he never would. Perhaps he had some kind of bias against her as a woman that he wouldn’t admit even to himself. But it was there, blocking her way.
Mindy knew she had come to a crossroads. She had to choose a direction. After her father’s death, her life had changed enormously; then came Farell’s health crisis, his departure with their mother, and her mother’s marriage. All these unforeseen events were crucial in shaping Mindy’s decision.
Since her mother had now remarried and would not be returning, the family home was sold. Farell planned to stay in North Carolina in the pleasant and healthful environment he had found there. Her other two brothers had their own lives.
Ironically, Mindy had become what she had once described in her Dixie Dillon column, “a young girl alone in the world, without resources or a home, forced to make her own living.”
Late one Saturday afternoon, shortly after her break-up with Judson, feeling restless and at loose ends, Mindy went down to the newspaper office. As she entered the quiet, empty newsroom she stopped to get a cup of water from the cooler beside the door. Sipping it from a paper cup, she glanced casually at the bulletin board. There, posted along with several other notices, she saw one that seemed destined for her eyes.
WANTED: ALL-AROUND JOURNALIST AT THRIVING WEEKLY NEWSPAPER IN BEAUTIFUL SCENIC SURROUNDINGS, HEALTHFUL ENVIRONMENT, UNLIMITED OPPORTUNITY FOR AMBITIOUS YOUNG PERSON WITH SOME REPORTORIAL EXPERIENCE. REPLY IN OWN HANDWRITING TO BYRON KARR, EDITOR, ROARING RIVER GAZETTE, COARSE GOLD, COLORADO.
Colorado! Out west. Like many easterners, Mindy had read glorious accounts of the western part of the country. It held a mysterious glamour of majestic beauty, adventure, and fortune for those daring enough to take a chance on the unknown. It was called “manifest destiny,” and it beckoned the young and eager and fearless.
A thrill went all through Mindy. Here was the perfect answer for her damaged ego, her loneliness, her depression. A possible opening in the stone wall of her desired profession. Why not answer the ad? It had not specified man. It had used the word person, no designation of gender nor indication of discrimination against the female sex.
Mindy hurried over to her desk and immediately drafted a letter to the editor of the Roaring River Gazette. In her best professional style, she stated her employment of nearly a year at the Courier, and a summary of the stories she had covered. As she closed, she hesitated. Just in case this editor had the least bit of resistance against hiring a woman reporter, she signed her letter: I. Howard McClaren. It was, in truth, her name: she had been christened Independence Howard McClaren. She blotted the flourishing signature and smiled. Monday she would take it to the post office, attach the appropriate postage, and mail it to Coarse Gold, Colorado. Even the name promised excitement and adventure.
To her surprise, after returning to Aunt Jen’s the next afternoon, she found a dejected Judson sitting on the porch steps. He was holding a bouquet of limp yellow daffodils, wilting fast for lack of water. At the sight of her, his face brightened. He stood up, letting the flowers drop.
“Mindy, I’m sorry. Sorry for what happened, sorry for all the things I said. Can’t we forget what happened? Start over? I can’t face losing you. I love you. Please, Mindy.”
He looked so sad, so abject. And perhaps she was even beginning to feel a little uncertain about what she had just done. For a minute she was tempted to give in. Then something clicked inside: a warning. The longing of the moment blinds to the possibilities of regret. When she had broken her engagement, she had felt sad, but she knew it was the right thing to do. If she relented even a little now, it would have to be done all over again. And next time, it might be even more painful for both of them.
As gently as she could Mindy said, “I’m sorry, Judson, it would never work for us. I think down deep you know that too. Let’s say good-bye now and still be friends. Isn’t that possible?”
Judson’s face clouded. “You are so stubborn, Mindy. You only see what you want to see. You’re willing to give up everything we could have together for some foolish dream—”
“That’s just it, Judson, foolish or not, it’s my dream. One you don’t share. And I won’t give it up. I can’t.” She shook her head sadly. “That’s why it wouldn’t work.” She saw the muscle in his cheek tighten, knew that he was trying to think of other ways to persuade her.
“I’m going away, Judson, leaving Woodhaven. For what it’s worth, I may not find what I’m looking for, but I have to try.”
Judson looked startled. “Where are you going? When?” “I don’t think I should tell you, Judson. It wouldn’t matter.”
His shoulders slumped. “Mindy, if only you’d—” He stopped, unable to go on, as if he couldn’t even find words to say.
Mindy watched Judson go down the walk, out through the gate. It was so final. Even though her heart was breaking, she knew she had made the right choice. For both their sakes.
This last conversation closed the door forever
on what might have been for them.
The letter was already on its way, though she knew it might be weeks before she heard back from the editor, Byron Karr. If she waited for his reply, she might change her mind or lose her nerve. Or worse still, perhaps the editor of the Roaring River Gazette would refuse to hire a woman reporter once he finds out. So, what if she just showed up?
Her heart thundering, Mindy walked to the train station and bought a one-way ticket to Coarse Gold, Colorado.
* * *
PART 2
* * *
Chapter 10
Coarse Gold was a misnomer. It was silver, veins of it, discovered in the surrounding mountains, that had transformed this desolate stretch of land into a town. First, it had been a rough mining camp, populated by greedy men eager to strike it rich. Soon, a meager stream of people trickled in, providing the necessities for the miners. Within a few years it had grown into a small, thriving town on the edge of civilization—with 4,000 citizens. Houses, stores, two hotels, five saloons, a newspaper and three churches followed.
With a grinding screech of metal wheels on iron tracks, the train jolted to a stop. Minutes later, Mindy stepped down from the train. Travel-worn, her mouth dry, her eyes gritty from flying cinders and soot, her hair in need of brushing, and her clothes wrinkled from the long trip—she took a quick look around. Aware of the curious stares of a group of disheveled-looking men standing across from the wooden platform, she straightened her hat brim, picked up her valise, and headed for a ramshackle building with a crooked sign on its jutting roof: THE PALACE HOTEL. Hardly representative of its name, it seemed the most likely place to find a room, or perhaps even to take a bath or at least freshen up before going to the newspaper office.
That was her priority. Once she had secured the job, she would send someone for her trunk and find a proper room to rent. Trying to look more confident than she felt, Mindy crossed the unpaved street. Still the object of inquisitive eyes, she mounted the uneven wooden steps. At the top, as she reached for the door handle, it was opened for her. Startled, she took a step back. A man in a tweed jacket, bowed slightly, breasted his hat, then gestured toward the entrance. He was of medium height, slimly built with a lean face and thick, smooth hair. His eyes were light gray and thoughtful.
