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 felt 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.