Not My Will and The Light in My Window (27 page)

I
n the heavy dark that comes before the dawn, Eleanor was awakened by a small figure slipping into her bed beside her.

“What is it, honey bun?” she asked Mary Lou. “Are you cold, or did you get lonesome?”

“I just couldn’t go back to sleep,” said the small person earnestly. “Connie told me that if I woke Mother up, she’d spank me—Connie, I mean. I don’t
think
she means it, but I’d better not try it. I can’t lie still—my legs are all wiggly. I thought maybe you’d be patienter than Connie.”

“Bless your heart, I couldn’t ever be impatient with you,” replied Eleanor, snuggling the little girl closer. “You’re such a sweet little sister.”

“You’re such a nice big sister. Last Christmas I was so lonesome for Chad I felt sort of sick all day. But this
year, because you are here, the achy, sick feeling isn’t here! It seems so all right now!”

“It is all right, dear,” whispered Eleanor. “God is wonderfully good to take away the pain and give peace in its place.”

“Yes, He is.”

For a few minutes they lay silently, and Eleanor was dozing again when Mary Lou whispered, “Eleanor, isn’t it almost morning? Mother said we could get up at six.”

Eleanor turned on the light to look at her watch. “Only five-thirty, dear. Won’t you try to take another nap?”

Mary Lou sighed. “All the sleepy is ab-so-lute-ly gone out of me. But I’ll try.”

She tried with such good effect that both girls had to be awakened when Bob came back from stirring up the fire at half past six.

Eleanor had never had a Christmas in a family group before, and to her the early-morning gathering around the tree was unforgettable. Vaguely she remembered Christmas as a time when Aunt Ruth bought her a big tree and many beautiful presents and gave them to her in a dignified way after dinner on Christmas Eve. Her formal Christmases had lacked the Christmas spirit, without which all else is worthless. She had never known anything like this Stewart assemblage.

In robes and slippers everyone sat around the tree, while Santa’s little helper “Pigtails,” fairly bristling with excitement, distributed the gifts. Dick and Eleanor sat on the davenport and laughed at Mary Lou’s obvious attempts to be everywhere at once.

The gifts were not costly, but simple things that were needed, such as a new dress for Mother from Bob
and Marilyn, a snowsuit for Mary Lou, little dresses for baby Patty—who was industriously playing horsie with the Christmas tree trimmings—a suede jacket for Connie, a few books, some family games. For Eleanor there was a remembrance from each one, and as she received the packages her heart overflowed with love for these folk who had so completely taken her to their hearts. There were even gifts for Dick—a new book of choruses, some candy, and a necktie. He and Eleanor had unloaded their suitcases the night before and contributed a generous share to the pile of sparkling packages under the tree. There was a joyous confusion in the room as paper wrappings were torn off and cries of “Just what I wanted!” and “Oh, thank you!” were heard on all sides. Baby Patty crept joyously from one intriguing box to another, taking advantage of the confusion to sample forbidden sweets and caress with sticky fingers the bright new jackets on the Christmas books.

When things had quieted somewhat, Mother Stewart handed Bob a long envelope, saying softly, “I want this to be thought of as a gift from your father and me, Bob, to a good son who has carried a heavy burden bravely and well. May God bless you and Marilyn and give you many happy years together in your new home.”

Bob opened the envelope with interest and glanced quickly over the paper that it contained. His face flushed, then paled. He handed the paper to Marilyn, saying huskily as he did so, “A deed to the upper forty.”

With a gulp of deep emotion, he kissed Mother, saying, “I can’t say what I feel, Mom. But I’ll try to show you how much we both appreciate this.”

And Marilyn, with shining eyes, added her kiss with lips that could not speak.

As soon as breakfast was over, Bob and Dick went to the barn, then off again in the big sled to take the milk to market. While they were gone, the girls did the morning’s work. Eleanor had to go all over the house, from the little sanitarium upstairs, where she helped Mother distribute Christmas cheer to the patients, to the basement, where she inspected her rows of fruits and vegetables with the pride of a craftsman.

Bob and Dick returned with the announcement that the long hill in the back pasture was in perfect condition for coasting. Mary Lou squealed with delight at the prospect, and the three girls hurried off to get into snowsuits.

“Aren’t you coming, Len?” called Connie as Eleanor lingered behind, making no move to dress for the outdoors.

“Not this time,” was the reply. “Mother and I haven’t had our visit yet. There’ll be plenty of snow before I leave.”

She remained firm in spite of their entreaties, so finally the group set off without her, Dick making many jokes about his “borrowed plumes.” He had Uncle John’s heavy boots and mackinaw, and an old wool cap of Bob’s. Eleanor rejoiced to see how completely Dick seemed to be enjoying himself. She had not known he could be so lively. Her impression of him as a quiet, homesick boy was definitely out of place now.

“But I’m glad he’s having such a good time,” she murmured, watching out the window as the party trudged down the lane and out of sight. Then she
turned to the fire. Mother was upstairs with her patients, Mrs. Hunt was busy in the kitchen, and the house was quiet.

Eleanor lay on the sofa watching the flames and thinking back over the years. It was just three years ago, on another Christmas Day, that she and Chad had been spellbound in the first joys of their love, sitting around the fire with the merry group at the lake cottage. Three years! Into those three years Eleanor had crowded a lifetime’s experiences : love … marriage … happiness … sorrow … parting … motherhood … despair … bitterness … restoration … consecration … dedication … work … healing … and now at last almost happiness again. Just one thing was lacking. One yearning pain in Eleanor’s heart never quite left her, but she had learned to go to her Refuge, and even now she closed her eyes and whispered softly, “Oh, Father, wherever my baby is today, be with him and keep him safe—and give him a merry Christmas.”

Mother Stewart descended the stairs slowly and started as Eleanor sat up on the sofa. “Why, I thought you had gone with the others!” she exclaimed.

“No.” Eleanor smiled. “I preferred to stay behind and visit with you. So I told Marilyn I would listen while Patty takes her midmorning nap, so that she could go. There’s been such commotion since I came, you and I really haven’t had a visit.”

Mother Stewart looked dubious. “Didn’t you want to go, dear? I could have minded Patty.”

“Really, I’d rather stay.”

“I should order you out,” said Mother Stewart, laughing, “but it’s too pleasant to have you here again.
You need to be out playing after working so hard at school.”

Eleanor sighed. “I’m not morbid, Mother, but the fact is that I just haven’t the heart for things like that. I feel fifty years old.”

“Oh, my dear!” remonstrated the older woman. “You mustn’t feel so. And won’t Dick feel badly at your staying at home?”

“Not a bit,” came the prompt assurance. “He’s nothing special to me, really. Dick is one of the nicest boys I know, but my interest in him is sort of maternal. He has been homesick, and since my own life has contained so much unhappiness, I can sympathize with others. That’s all.”

“Have you tried to interest yourself in the other young folk?” Mother asked, taking up her darning basket and sitting down by the window. Even on Christmas Day her hands refused to be idle.

“Yes, I have tried, but I don’t fit well into just-fun gatherings,” replied Eleanor soberly. “I’m afraid it’s no use, Mother. That part of me is dead. I enjoy studying. I get a real thrill from working with my girls at Henderson Institute. But the part of me that could play—really play—died …” her voice dwindled to almost a whisper “… when Chad died.”

“I wish you could fall in love again,” remarked Mother unexpectedly.

Eleanor looked amazed. Then she laughed lightly. “I am in love, Mother—with the naughtiest, spunkiest, most fascinating chap I ever knew. But he’s only a year and a half old.”

“You mean the King baby, I presume,” returned Mother Stewart, looking disappointed.

“Yes, Mother, he’s the
dearest thing.
I wish you could have seen him, though, as he was when I first knew him. He was thin and pitiful and so
mad.
I’ve been taking care of him afternoons for two months now, and—believe it or not—he has begun to put on weight again. I’m so proud! I give him his supper and then put him to bed, and lately he’s been sleeping twelve hours every night without waking once. He used to awaken every two or three hours and cry.”

Mother Stewart made a little sympathetic clucking noise and remarked, “How terrible! What was the trouble with him?”

“Mostly mismanagement,” responded Eleanor, smiling confidingly. “Mrs. King was very ill when he came, and Dr. King was in the hospital too—he stayed there until the baby was six months old. It was an unfortunate time for a baby to descend on their household, and I understand he never had much of a schedule. And Mrs. King is so gentle she hasn’t any idea how to discipline him. His tantrums frighten her, so she lets him do as he pleases. She idolizes him, and worries over him all the time. Until I took him over she had had no relief at all. For some peculiar reason, however, he will take discipline from me—and he’s getting it!”

“He doesn’t sound very attractive,” commented Mother Stewart.

“I know it,” Eleanor agreed. “But he definitely is. Billy met us in the park one day and said afterward that the baby has the makin’s’ of a handsome child if he ever
gets strong. He has lovely golden curls and big blue eyes and the sweetest smile.”

“Every baby is sweet,” remarked the mother. “But Len, dear, I’m a little concerned about you and the King baby, for I wonder if you are not getting too fond of him. Might you not be preparing more sorrow for yourself?”

“I’ve thought of that,” returned Eleanor seriously. “I do love him, but I think it’s just because my heart is aching and empty for a baby boy. When I have to come away and leave him when school is out, undoubtedly I’ll be sad. But it seems to alleviate my pain just now to help care for him, and I believe the Lord wants me to do it. So please don’t try to dissuade me, Mother. I’m enjoying it so much that I wish the Kings would take me on full time.”

“I won’t say another word,” came the promise. “When you and the Lord agree, that’s all the reassurance I need.”

Eleanor looked relieved.

“By the way, how do you like Dr. King by this time?” asked Mother Stewart.

“Not at all—and a great deal.” Eleanor laughed enigmatically. “He exasperates me beyond expression, yet I admire him greatly! Half the time in his class I sit on the edge of the seat spellbound, and the other half of the time I yearn to throw a book at him. He has been unusually endowed by the Lord with natural gifts-good looks, brains, talent, personality, and so on. ‘He has everything,’ Angela croons to herself, and one must agree. And when I see how adoringly he treats his wife at home, I like him for that, even though it makes my
heart ache with loneliness. But when I see him with the little chap, I thoroughly dislike him!”

“What do you mean?” asked Mother Stewart in surprise.

“Why, he doesn’t care a bit for that baby!” exclaimed Eleanor vehemently. “He doesn’t abuse him, and he dutifully performs all the tasks he has read that fathers ought to do—but, Mother, he doesn’t
love
the baby. And to make the situation more heart-rending, the little chap loves him with all the ardor of his little soul. He reaches out his arms in glee and calls ‘Daddy’ the minute he sees Dr. King, and then when the high and mighty doctor does deign to pick him up, his joy is really pitiful. Then I heartily, thoroughly, absolutely dislike the Reverend Doctor!”

“I am sure that situation will right itself in time,” responded the mother. “Dr. King may feel that the baby is responsible for his wife’s lost health—but no father can withhold his affection from his son for long.”

Eleanor looked dubious. “I think it goes deeper than that. Dr. Philip King is a thoroughly self-centered gentleman, and he just hasn’t taken the little chap into his life at all. Yet he seems to like other children. He goes to the kindergarten at the institute and fondles the little ones there.”

After a thoughtful pause, Eleanor went on. “There are two Philip Kings, Mother. The one I like is a kind lover and husband, a zealous worker among the city’s poor, and an inspiration to the young people in the institute church. The other one—the one I abhor—is self-centered, ambitious, clever, and cynical, almost an evil influence among the Bethel students.”

“An evil influence!” exclaimed Mother Stewart, shocked.

“Those are strong words, but I really think so, Mother,” replied Eleanor. “The reason is that Dr. King is willfully determined to accomplish things—all in his own power. There is never so much as a hint in his teaching of dependence on God, and so there is no real power. He is always busy doing something, and he really does accomplish some things, but I don’t believe he is making a permanent impact for good on any of the lives he reaches.”