Not My Will and The Light in My Window (58 page)

Just what would be done to the fine old church no one knew. Billy’s father was chairman of the trustees, and he would not return from South America for several weeks. Until then, the broken windows were boarded up, the doors locked, and for the first time in its long career, it stood silent and idle. In the Palace the whole Institute staff labored under an extra heavy load of work, so there was no chance nor place for the talk Stan desired.

Hope was glad they were so busy. Definitely, she did not want to talk to Stan. Since Billy’s disclosure of the relationship between herself and Stan, Hope had felt her old self-consciousness and fear returning. Her sense of security had fled, and as she contemplated any conversation she and Stan might have she
grew panic-stricken at the prospect. If she had dared, she would have gone home, but she could not desert her friends when they needed her so badly. Besides, she did not want to go home. Hope had thought that by this time she would be able to go, but, brought face to face with the prospect, she drew back. The forbidding wall was still there. Yet, neither did she want to stay here and talk to Stan!

The decision was taken out of her hands, however. A telephone call brought word that Stan’s father was very ill, and he and Billy left at once. Although several college students were drafted to help in their places, it still made a heavier load for each of the regular staff to carry. Eleanor took over all the office work, which she could do in her own rooms, still keeping one eye on Chad and her housekeeping. Hope and Romilda worked together in the nursery, and two young mothers gave them occasional assistance. Hope missed the friendly fellowship of the alcove dining nook, but Ben was too busy and too much engrossed in plans for his wedding to think of anything else. Hope worked energetically and tried to forget her loneliness. The days were not hard, for she loved her girls and enjoyed helping them. The difficulties since the fire were a challenge to her efficient spirit, and she tackled them with zest.

When the girls were gone and the big tower room was dark and quiet with no talkative Billy in the other bed, Hope lay through many hours of the nights turning over in her mind the events of the past and prospects of the future. What
should
she do? She did not feel that she could ever again be satisfied here as she had been last winter when all of them had worked together. Looking back on it from this monotonous treadmill into which the Institute work had fallen, even the nightmarish days of the epidemic had a certain luster. Then she felt useful even though she ached with weariness and sorrow; now she was just a fill-in. Someone from the college, with training for this work, could be found to take her place, and she would have to start out again to find a place where she could live and work. Oh, she was
tired
of it all.

Her thoughts turned to Stan and his desire to talk with her. The look in his eyes had told her what such a talk might mean, and thinking about it night after night, Hope came face to face
with the realization that Stan had grown to mean much to her. As long as she had considered him as an eager contestant for Billy’s love she had regarded him as a fine friend and comrade. The disclosure of his real relationship to Billy and the suggestion of those low words, “I have something I want to say to you later,” had destroyed that basis for their fellowship. From then on the whole situation had been changed. The look in his eyes when he had spoken had been that of a lover rather than a friend.

Hope was through with Love. Not that she was mourning over Jerry—definitely
not
. She could even think of his marrying Grace Sharp with a sincere desire for their happiness, for Jerry wasn’t bad, only weak. Perhaps Grace was the right one to brace him up and make a stronger man of him. For herself, Hope was thankful that she had been saved from a marriage with him, having seen this winter in her life at the Institute examples of Christian manhood above her former comprehension. It would be impossible for her to unite her life with one who did not love the Lord wholeheartedly as she herself had learned to do.

Hope had been especially attracted by the home life of the Kings. The strong love that bound them together “each for the other and both for God” (Hope had seen that motto written under a picture of the two standing on the steps of a small country church), the complete satisfaction they found in each other’s presence, the teamwork they displayed as they labored together at the Institute, their joy in their small son—all these things combined in Hope’s mind to make a picture of the ideal home. She did not consciously envy them, but often when observing them her heart ached with the knowledge that such happiness could never be hers. Hope thought that Eleanor’s face was the most radiant one she had ever seen. Billy’s face was beautiful and usually was full of sparkling animation, but Eleanor’s, even in repose, had a shining quality that defied Hope’s efforts to describe it as she wrote to Mother Bess or Daddy about her friends here.

When one thought about it, however, it wasn’t hard to understand why Eleanor’s face shone. She had everything in life that her heart could desire. Sometimes Hope let her mind dwell for a minute on the question of whether Eleanor would be so full of joy if her life were not so rich in blessing. If
she
were a step-stepchild who wasn’t wanted, and if she had learned that no men
could be trusted—at least, almost none of them—would Eleanor be so happy?

Eleanor’s watchful eyes detected the change in Hope, and she knew that for some reason the ground gained during the months of happy work had been lost and they were back in the Slough of Despond again. She tried to talk to her, but Hope, having decided that an unjust distribution of life’s blessings had given Eleanor every advantage and herself every handicap, did not respond or give any confidences.

“Don’t worry, little mother,” said Phil. “This may be just the last relapse before victory. Keep on praying, and let the Lord, who knows all the reasons for her inhibitions, direct her course. She is His child, and He will see her through.”

So Eleanor and Philip prayed, and night after night Hope fought her battle against distrust and fear.

A
fter two weeks a letter came from Stan for Hope. Billy had called twice to give news of the invalid, but this was the first letter. Hope was glad she had met the postman that morning and that no one else saw it. In the quiet of her room during the noon hour she read and reread the letter.

As Hope and Eleanor worked together over the clinic reports that afternoon, Eleanor glanced anxiously again and again
at Hope’s burning cheeks and too bright eyes. When their hands met in reaching for papers, she noted that those of the girl were icy cold. At last she spoke. “You’re ill, Hope. Let me finish here, and you trot off to bed. I’ll be in soon and tuck you in with a hot water bottle. Take an aspirin, and I’ll have Ben look you over when he comes in.”

“Oh don’t, please! It’s just a headache. If you can go on alone I will lie down for a while. I’ll be up in time to get Ben’s supper.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. There’s only one chance in ten that Ben will be home for supper, and if he is he can eat with us. One dose of my cooking won’t kill him.”

Hope smiled wanly and turned away. As she passed the table, Eleanor caught her and drew her to her side.

“Hope, dear, I don’t know what is troubling you. But I do know there is One who can help you in any circumstance. I have proved Him in desperate cases, and He never fails. Let go of the trouble, and let Him guide you, dear.”

Hope stooped and kissed Eleanor, saying hurriedly, lest she betray her deep feeling, “Thank you, Eleanor. You’re
so
good to me.”

In the dark and silent tower room Hope lay sleepless. When she allowed herself to remember the words of the letter, she could not but feel a deep thrill of joy to know that such a man as Stan had chosen her for his heart’s desire. She had not been entirely surprised by the declaration of his love, for in the days following the revelation of his relationship to Billy she had gone over and over in her mind the events of the past winter. In the light of that knowledge, events formerly unnoticed had assumed significance, and remarks that had meant little when heard, now returned weighted with meaning, so she had somewhat anticipated this situation. She had refused to face it until the letter had arrived but now could not evade it.

Hope wished she were free to write to Stan and tell him how wonderful it seemed that he should choose her from among all the girls he knew. Surely, with all the opportunities that travel, education, and wealth had brought to him, he must have met many girls who were better suited to him than she was. Yet she did not doubt his love. Somehow one didn’t doubt Stan. Whatever
his weaknesses, when he spoke soberly one knew that he was sincere.

But why should he love
her?
And why had she been shown a glimpse of such a desirable thing as Stan’s love, only to have to refuse it? For of course she must refuse him. Not that she did not love him—for Hope knew that she did, loved him so much that she must not let her thoughts dwell on that part of the problem for fear of weakening in her resolution. It was
because
she loved him that she dare not say yes to his plea. Stan with his sincerity, his gaiety, his glad outlook on life, must not be hampered by union with one whose life and nature were shrouded by shadows as hers was. She could never bring happiness to him, for unhappiness seemed her familiar spirit. If she married him they might be happy for a short time, but eventually the old shame and sorrow would rise up and haunt her. The brightness of the happiness would wear off, and Hope could not stand that.

How could she know that she would continue to love Stan? Hadn’t she loved Jerry? Now she didn’t care for him at all. It would be terrible to marry Stan and then grow to dislike him. Hope did not doubt that Stan’s love would be an enduring thing, but what about hers? She could trust him—but she did not trust herself. Better never to have Stan than to have him grieved and disappointed because of her.

Hope longed to forget the past and go into the golden future that Stan offered. If only she could! It must be wonderful to be free from fetters of fear and to enjoy life as Billy did. Billy had had love and care all her life. She had never known what it meant to be unloved and unwanted. She was confident not only of Ben’s love for her but of her love for him. “So long as we both shall live” would hold no doubts for Billy.

Eleanor, too. Ever since coming to the Palace, Hope had watched the home life of the Kings and rejoiced to know that it was possible to “live happily ever afterward” outside the covers of a story book. But tonight in the dark hours alone, Hope saw it only as a source of covetous, bitter pain. If Eleanor had been through the years of lonely heartache that had been Hope’s share, she could not have so confidently accepted life and love. Her face could not have shone with that glow that made her so beautiful.

Stan deserved the best. He had a place in the world to fill, and he needed at his side a happy, confident wife. She could never be that, for she had seen too much of unhappiness to trust any future, however promising. The only honorable thing to do was to tell him so at once. With this decision Hope ceased the struggle and gave way to the tears she had been fighting. The next day she wrote to Stan.