Not My Will and The Light in My Window (13 page)

When Carolyn finally re-entered the chapel, Eleanor was sitting quietly in a seat, her eyes fixed on the stained-glass window. She left with Carolyn without a backward glance.

Through the long hours of the night as they traveled on the jerky little train that bore them northward, Eleanor lay back against the pillow she had rented from the conductor and kept her eyes closed. Only occasional restlessness gave evidence that she was not asleep.

Fred and Carolyn, in the seat across the aisle, slept fitfully. Whenever they wakened they turned anxious eyes on the girl and were vaguely disturbed by her unnatural quietness.

In the early morning they alighted at the little town and rested for a few hours before going out to the country church where the service was to be held. Carolyn and Fred tried to talk, but they soon realized that Eleanor did not hear them, and, feeling that she desired it, they left her alone.

That afternoon as they drove over the gravel roads running between fields of dry stubble and through timberland, Carolyn chatted idly with Fred, who sat by the driver. If addressed, Eleanor replied politely, but the rest of the time she sat quietly. But her thoughts were busy. Remembering Chad’s description of them, she identified with mixed emotions the big brick high school where Chad had studied for four years, the country road over which he had walked every day, the bridge from which he had once dived and almost lost his life, the fields where he had toiled during the summer, and finally,
the church with the cemetery on the hill behind it.

As they entered the church, Carolyn became conscious that many pairs of eyes followed the “city strangers.” Ellen walked as if alone, her eyes fixed on the flower-banked couch at the front, and Carolyn had to touch her arm to lead her to a seat. A young woman was playing softly on the upright piano, and the church was rapidly filling. Eleanor was beginning to wonder how long she could endure this hush when a sober-faced little group came down the aisle and occupied the pews that had been reserved at the front.

Eleanor recognized them immediately. The white-haired woman was Chad’s beloved mom. The tall, dark young man was Bob, and the girl who resembled him, sister Connie. A pair of long, blonde braids identified Chad’s “special” little sister, Mary Lou. The other girl in the pew was probably Bob’s fiancée, Marilyn. Eleanor wondered what would happen if she were to walk over and seat herself at Marilyn’s side—if she should tell the family and friends that she had been nearest and dearest to Chad. In order to keep her thoughts away from that quiet figure at the front, she went over and over the possibilities of this scene until she feared she would actually speak out.

Then she looked out the window, and the watchful Carolyn saw such a spasm of pain cross her face that she slipped an arm around Eleanor’s shoulders. Glancing out the window, she tried to ascertain the cause of the distress, but all she saw was a small country churchyard with tombstones tipped at all degrees, and in one corner a rustic bench under a tree.

The service was not one of morbid grief. The young
people grouped around the piano sang hymns of hope and assurance, and the same note was echoed in the brief message. The preacher was even joyful as he told of the spiritual experiences Chad had described to him the previous summer.

Tall youths, Chad’s friends, carried him up the hill to his last resting place, while the young folk at the head of the procession sang again “Asleep in Jesus, Blessed Sleep.” Eleanor would not look at the grave but stood at the edge of the crowd. Just as the minister’s voice ceased, she heard a shrill, childish voice cry out, “Oh, Mommy, I don’t want them to do that to my Chad!”

Sobbing little Mary Lou was lifted into brother Bob’s arms, where she buried her head against his shoulder.

As the quiet group moved away, Carolyn said, “Will you go with me to speak to Chad’s mother, Eleanor?”

“No! And if anyone tries to speak to me, don’t let him!” She walked swiftly to the bench in the corner, waiting for Carolyn to rejoin her. Without a glance at the flower-heaped mound, she went away.

After Fred and Carolyn had left Eleanor at her apartment, Carolyn said, “There’s more to this than we know, Fred. This isn’t any ordinary grief we’ve seen. If Eleanor doesn’t relax and let herself have a good cry, her nerves will snap.”

“We’ll have to keep in touch with her and try to cheer her up,” Fred responded.

Fred and Carolyn fully intended to keep this good resolution, but a sudden illness on the part of their son, in addition to the responsibilities of teaching school, diverted their energies, and weeks passed before they had time for her again.

O
n Friday morning, to the surprise of Professor Nichols, Eleanor appeared in the laboratory as usual.

“Miss Eleanor, I am at a loss for words that would console you on the loss of your young friend,” he began uncertainly. “If you would like to take a short interlude of several days before starting your work—”

“Thank you, Professor Nichols,” a quiet voice replied. “The best consolation I can find is in my work. Do you mind if I stay here all day and continue last week’s experiments?”

Last week!
Eleanor thought.
Was that when I left this work unfinished to go off into a different world with a boy I once knew? Was last week Thanksgiving, and was Chad here?

She resumed her work diligently, and the old gentleman began to wonder whether he had been mistaken about her having cared for the Stewart boy, since she was apparently so indifferent to his tragic death.

* * *

The proofs of the book had been returned. There was much painstaking labor ahead for both the professor and his assistant, and into it they now plunged wholeheartedly. The professor tired quickly these days, so Eleanor found herself bearing the heavy end of the burden, checking and rechecking the precious pages that had to be so accurate. But hard work left little time for wandering thoughts, for which she was thankful.

On Sunday morning Eleanor cleaned the apartment in desperation. Windows, cupboards, and floors were scrubbed until they shone. As lunchtime approached, Eleanor dared not trust herself to sit down alone at the table, so she made a cheese sandwich and ate it as she walked about. In the afternoon she began to mend, although there was no further need of practicing such economy. After an hour had passed, Eleanor rose and went to a drawer to find some hose that needed darning. There lay a pair of Chad’s socks.

The suddenness of finding them there broke through the armor she had forged for her soul, and as she caught them up to her cheek convulsively, the cry “Oh, Chad!” escaped her.

How she longed to sit down and give way to her grief! But that would never do. She was doing too well at controlling her emotions to give way now. So she brushed her hair, put on her wraps, and went for a long walk, a walk that left her so exhausted she could do nothing else but sleep that night.

When she awakened the next morning the sun was shining brightly through the window, and with a quick
cry of “Chad! We’re late!” Eleanor sat straight up in bed. But the empty pillow brought a return of memory, and it was an hour before she could assume her wonted calm. With it came a grim determination: Today she would leave the apartment and never come back. All morning she worked, packing dishes and linens to send to the lake. A telephone call to the university revealed that there was a room available in one of the women’s dormitories, so Eleanor sought out the landlord of the apartment, paid him an extra month’s rent in lieu of the notice she should have given, and gave him shipping instructions for the packed boxes.

Handing him the keys, she walked away without a backward glance. It was too hard to look back. It was even harder to look ahead, if she let her gaze rove from the goal of hard work and success that she had set for herself. Only one thing was left in life for Eleanor Stewart—to work so hard that success would be hers, and so hard that two undesirable elements would be crowded out. One element was dreams. The other was memory.

One week before Christmas Eleanor received a letter from Carolyn Fleet. It read:

The next day another letter arrived. Over it Eleanor spent more time. It had been delayed in delivery, for the address was only “Care of the Registrar.” When Eleanor saw the postmark she sat for many minutes, turning it over in her hands. Finally, drawing a long, deep breath, she opened it. The color came and went in her face as she read:

Eleanor’s first impulse was to accept. Her heart went out in a rush of longing to know these people who were Chad’s own. She wanted to cuddle little Mary Lou in her arms, to help Connie with the wedding plans, to feel
around her the arms that had rocked the baby Chad, and to lay her head on that shoulder where he had slept. The way she had chosen to follow was a lonely one, and the fellowship and love of the Stewart family would mean much to her.

But a memory of Chad’s voice came.

“We won’t go back, dear, till you can go as my wife.”

Well, he had gone—without her. If she went now it would be only as his friend. Could she do that? She recalled the faces of all the family as she had seen them on the day of the funeral, and her longing at that time to take her rightful place among them. No, she was not strong enough to go through with it. She could endure anything but kindness. Their kindness would probably draw out from her the whole story, and then her ambition—the only thing left to her by the recent tragedy-would be forever frustrated. Whatever happened, she must avoid Chad’s family.

Eleanor drew out her notepaper and in a few moments her pen was flying over the paper.

There! she
thought decisively, sealing the envelope quickly as though she were afraid she might change her mind.
Now they probably won’t even write anymore, and it’s just as well.

Eleanor spent Christmas working alone in the laboratory. The professor, on having heard her holiday plans, invited her to spend the day with him and his wife, but he had learned recently that Miss Eleanor was happier when left alone, so he did not urge the invitation too strongly.

* * *

The corrected proofs of the book went to the publisher the last week in January, and the day after they were mailed, Professor and Mrs. Nichols boarded a train for California. Eleanor had given them a half-promise that when she finished writing a term paper she might follow them. At one time in her life she would have grasped such an opportunity for travel and wider experience in her field. But as she turned away from the station where she had gone to see the old couple off, she realized that it mattered little to her whether she went or stayed.