Not My Will and The Light in My Window (17 page)

Eleanor drew on her hat and coat, picked up her bag, and in a moment had slipped quietly out the front door.

Once on the highway, she ran until she was breathless, walked awhile, then ran again. The wind tore at her skirt and almost drove her off the road more than once. Her feet were like lead, but she must not stop here in the bright moonlight.

Past the little schoolhouse, over the long bridge, over what seemed like miles of highway until finally Eleanor recognized the corner leading up to the little church. Here she stopped, spent, and crept behind a big tree to lean against it and rest her pounding heart.

Up over the hill came the headlights of an automobile. She cowered farther back into the shadows until it passed, then started on again. Down the hollow, up the other hill past the dark church, and on into the silent yard behind it.

She knew just where to go. There were two tall pines keeping watch over the long mound she was seeking, and there in the moonlight she knelt and traced his name on the gray stone with her cold fingers. With all her heart she wished her name were on it, too, that she were lying down there beside him, rested and quiet.

Loneliness and trouble, perplexity and sorrow, rolled over Eleanor in such a flood that the world began to reel around her. Clutching the stone desperately, she cried, “Oh, Chad, I can’t go on!” Then she slipped down into a heap on the snow-covered mound.

* * *

Back in the farmhouse, Bob and Marilyn had gone into the front bedroom and stood looking down into the basket where tiny Patty lay.

“Poor little baby.” Bob laughed. “She’s going to look like her daddy.”

“She’s a lovely baby,” said Marilyn loyally, “and I’m glad she’s dark. If her hair curls like yours, I’ll be perfectly happy.”

“If she has your disposition, Lyn,
I’ll
be perfectly happy,” Bob returned. “You’re such an easy person to love!”

He turned her face toward his and with a kiss said softly, “I liked you at seven, I loved you at seventeen, and I’ll still love you at seventy!”

Marilyn thanked him with shining eyes, then turned to tuck the covers more warmly about the little one. In the hall they could hear Mother knocking at the door of Chad’s room to announce supper. At first she knocked lightly, then more loudly. Finally she called in an anxious voice.

“I’m going to go see what’s up,” Bob told Marilyn and started down the hall. He entered Chad’s room just in time to hear his mother cry out in anguish. With a white face she turned and reached out her arms to Bob, who caught her.

“She’s gone!” exclaimed Mrs. Stewart brokenly. “Oh, my Chad’s little baby!”

Connie snatched the note and read it aloud while the others stood in shocked silence and Mrs. Stewart sat and wept for the little grandchild she would never see. Loving arms stole around her to comfort her, and at
length she wiped her eyes and said, “Forgive me, dears, for my weakness. This is a greater grief than death, but it isn’t beyond the help of our heavenly Father. We’ll have to let Him take this burden, as He has all others.”

In a puzzled tone Mary Lou spoke. “But I don’t know what she meant. Where did Eleanor go ?”

Mrs. Stewart sat up sharply. “Oh, how thoughtless we’ve been! Where
did she
go, indeed? It’s a bad night to be out, and there’s no bus at this hour.”

Bob was already getting into his coat, and as the mother went for her own, she directed the girls. “Marilyn, into bed at once, child. Connie, have a hot bath and plenty of blankets ready. Mary Lou, keep the soup warm and get the hot water bags ready. The poor girl was ill when she came!”

Hurriedly Bob and Mrs. Stewart climbed into the car and drove off, praying for guidance about the road to take. They kept the headlights dim, that they might see more clearly into the shadows on both sides of the road, and neither spoke for a while. Finally Bob burst out, still keeping a sharp watch on his side of the road.

“Mom, I don’t get it at all. Chad was so straightforward and hated anything that wasn’t fair and square. How could he ever have fallen in love with a little—” He sought momentarily for an adjective—
“snip
like she is! Why, the way she wrote back after Chad left was abominable!”

“Son, let’s not judge her,” came the reply in broken tones. “Chad’s death was a shock to us all, and how much more to her! If her baby was born in August, Chad couldn’t even have known it was coming! I believe that grief and shock have unbalanced her.”

“Well, that was a bad break, Mom,” Bob conceded. “Think of Marilyn’s having to face that. But,” he argued, “why didn’t she tell us and let us help her?”

“That I can’t answer, Bob. The mention she made of money throws some light on the situation, but it’s not clear yet. I’m trying to realize that they were married when Chad was at home that last summer. I knew there was something on his mind, but he wouldn’t talk, and I put it in the Lord’s hands to work out. He did do a wonderful work in Chad’s heart that year.”

“Yes, there
was
a change,” admitted Bob. “All his carelessness and recklessness seemed gone, but I thought he was just worried over the farm work and my leg.”

“I was sure it had to do with this girl. He showed us her picture once and asked me how I’d like her for a daughter. She looked sweet and good, and I can’t think Chad misjudged her. Remember how he spoke of her in that last letter?”

“Yes, I do. But it doesn’t tie up with what she says. And giving away Chad’s baby!”

Mrs. Stewart sobbed for a few moments before answering. “That’s hardest of all. It’s like a knife thrust through my heart. But if I’m suffering, how is she feeling? I’m frightened, Bob! We’ve come four miles and haven’t found her. Where is she?”

“Perhaps someone else picked her up and gave her a ride,” Bob suggested.

“Not another car has passed, and we haven’t seen anyone. We were only a few minutes behind her!”

They had reached the crossroad, and Bob backed the car and turned. Slowly they drove back, with hearts growing more anxious. Twice Bob thought he saw
someone, but when he got out to investigate, he found only a snow-covered stump or a pile of brush. Finally they came to the big white gate leading from the main road to the cemetery. As always, Mrs. Stewart’s eyes turned sadly to the two mounds under the pines. Then she clutched Bob’s arm.

“Stop, oh stop! There, Bob, by the stone. Oh, we should have known she would come here!”

Bob was already running up the slope toward the pines.

E
leanor was lost. If she could only find her way home, Chad would be there with a tiny baby in his arms. But in every direction she turned, she ran into an impenetrable thicket that beat her back with icy blows and tore at her body with sharp, thorny branches. She was sore and cold and her chest hurt when she breathed. But she had to get home to Chad and the baby! She struggled to her feet in another attempt but fell again. Once more she arose to go on, but strong hands held her back. In fear she cried out, striking at the hands, but slipped back into the blackness. Fighting out of it, she beat at the encircling arms bearing her away, then heard Chad say, “Quiet, little sister, it’s all right now. Mom, you’ll have to drive. You’re not man enough to hold this little wildcat down.”

Chad wouldn’t call her a wildcat! She
must
get away. Desperately she struggled, but the strong arms held her
tight, and now the blackness was getting thicker and thicker. She was tired. It would be easier to let go and sink into it than to fight anymore. Now the waves were pounding on the stone slabs on Lake Shore Drive. This time she would let go and sleep in the lake forever. Let go … let go …

Connie and Mary Lou were standing in the door waiting as Bob came up the steps with his unconscious burden. Her eyes wide with fear and sympathy, Connie led Bob directly into the bedroom where she had prepared a bed. As soon as he could get away, Bob tiptoed softly into Marilyn’s room to tell her what had happened. Kneeling with his arms about her, he concluded, “I’m afraid for her, darling, but I did my best, for Chad’s sake. All we can do now is pray.”

That was a busy night. While working over Eleanor, Mother Stewart said once, “Thank God for that warm coat. She’d have frozen without it. As it is, I fear this is a bad night’s work. Mary Lou, tell Bob to call Dr. Leigh.”

Dr. Leigh arrived as rapidly as he could and heard the story with a grave face.

“Fever, pneumonia, and one or two other things are all we have to fight, I judge,” he snorted. “I wonder if the fool girls of this day are worth the trouble they cause!”

But he was working as he talked, and he stayed all night. Mrs. Stewart sent the girls to bed, then took up her place in the bedroom beside the doctor, laboring with him to fan the little spark of life and keep it from being extinguished.

As they worked, Mrs. Stewart told the doctor such parts of Eleanor’s story as she knew, and together they
tried to picture the happenings of the past two years that had culminated in this night’s tragedy.

When morning came Eleanor still lay breathing hoarsely, but sleeping. At first she had stirred and moaned in pain, but as the hours passed she sank into a deep slumber.

Connie came the next day to take her mother’s place at the bedside. But before Mrs. Stewart lay down to rest, she made a long-distance call to the university and asked for the dean of women. Then the two troubled women, actually hundreds of miles apart yet united by their concern for Eleanor, tried to piece together facts that might be of assistance in helping her.

“She insisted she had no relatives, Mrs. Stewart. Are you an aunt?”

“No, I am no kin. But she was a—dear friend of my son, who was killed there over a year ago.”

“Oh, I remember. Well, Eleanor has apparently been near a break for some time. She was formerly a brilliant student, but last quarter her work disintegrated and I was much concerned after I talked with her several days ago. I feared just such a crash as this but had no chance to warn her, as she wouldn’t talk and seemed anxious to leave as soon as possible. Then I went to her room yesterday morning and found it empty.”

“Has she no friends who should be notified?” asked Mrs. Stewart.

“None that I know of,” came the answer. “Inquiries that I made yesterday disclosed the fact that all last quarter Eleanor was decidedly reserved and unfriendly. She worked with Professor Nichols up until a year ago,
and he valued her work highly. However, he is in California and quite ill himself. I know of no other friends.”

Mother Stewart walked back to the bedside and looked down at the flushed face on the pillow.

“Poor little wanderer!” she exclaimed. “We may never know what brought her to this. Watch her carefully, Connie dear, and if you need me don’t hesitate to call. I shall lie down, for I’ll be busy again tonight, I can see.”

As the day passed the fever mounted, and with it came delirium. That night the endurance of both Dr. Leigh and Mrs. Stewart was tested, and the next time the doctor returned, he brought a nurse.

For days Eleanor lay tossing in delirium, talking in broken sentences, which helped the watchers to learn more of her story. Sometimes her voice was pleading: “Auntie, please let me go with the others. I’ll be good, truly I will.” Sometimes it was sullen and angry: “You’re cheating, Aunt Ruth, and I can beat you at that game.” Again there was happy, carefree laughter, which startled them, as it seemed so normal: “Chad, look at that! Oh, bring the camera, quick!” or, “Chad, we’ll come back here and build a laboratory in the woods and show the whole world what a team we are!” The tones became businesslike as Eleanor said, “Professor Nichols, the last slides weren’t good enough. I’ll get what you want if I have to stay up all night.”

Then there were hours when the battle in her soul over the money was laid bare—when they heard her pleading with Chad to be patient until she was twenty-five—when over and again she prayed, “Oh, God, save Chad for me, and I’ll give up the money and love and serve You forever.”

Other hours there were when she talked of her Picture Gallery of memory, and the listeners were almost able to tread it with her. Then when the pictures faded and she begged piteously for a recollection of Chad’s face, the listeners felt the tears run down their cheeks, though hers were hot and dry. Once she said to Marilyn and Bob as they sat by her, “Carolyn, you and Fred understand, don’t you? I daren’t let myself cry, for I could never stop.”

So often did the name Carolyn occur that Connie searched Eleanor’s bags and purse for some clue to its owner. And when she found Carolyn’s address, she wrote, telling her of Eleanor’s illness. Carolyn, her tender heart reproaching her for her failure to contact Eleanor, took several days’ leave from her schoolroom and came to help with the arduous task of nursing. Mrs. Stewart learned from her many new things about Eleanor, and Carolyn wept when she was shown the pitiful little note of confession.

“It is hard for me to forgive myself for not helping her more after Chad died. I had no idea that they were married, but I had always thought that they were suited to each other and expected they would marry eventually. I wonder why Eleanor didn’t tell me.”