“I can’t feel too badly. It just isn’t right!” Eleanor responded heatedly.
“Well, there was a time when I felt that way too. I’m not an old woman and I still want to live, especially since you are with me. I want to help with your work. But lying here in the long nights, I’ve done lots of thinking and wondering. I’ve been pretty headstrong. All my life I’ve wanted my own way and fought to get it. Having made one big mistake, I let it turn me from the right way.”
Eleanor patted her arm. “It has been a good way, Auntie dear, and I can’t feel it’s right for you to have to go.”
Ruth shook her head. “I tried to make it a good way, but I wanted it always to be my way, and the selfish way is never a good way. I have lived entirely for myself, and the world is no better for my being—yes, I know I’ve cared for you, but that has been pure joy for me. It has cost me nothing, and I have received everything.”
She was silent for a minute, then continued wistfully, “I wish I could go back and try again. I would try Mother’s way instead of my own. She lived first of all for her Lord, then for others—and last, for herself. She was happier than I have ever been.”
Eleanor did not speak, and Aunt Ruth went on, “As I have lain here thinking of my life I have realized how futile it has been compared to Mother’s. I had a better education than she had; I’ve had more money to spend in one year than she had in her lifetime. Yet she faced death as if she were confident of God’s leading in both the past and the future and could leave everything to Him. I haven’t let Him lead me in the past, and I have no assurance He will want to take over the case now.”
Mary, standing by, murmured with a tender voice as she straightened the tumbled pillows, “Oh yes, He will! I know Him, and it’s glad He’d be to lead any lamb that called Him.”
But Eleanor did not dare speak, lest the bitterness in her heart overflow. She did not want to grieve this dear aunt so obviously near death. And if Aunt Ruth could get any comfort by returning to her childhood religion, let her do it. Eleanor had nothing against religion. It was a rather good thing for the weak and those in trouble. She was sure there was a God somewhere whose duty it was to help people who weren’t able to manage their lives alone. But if He did govern the affairs of mankind, as Mary often said, Eleanor felt He was being very cruel to her just now. Hurriedly she kissed her aunt good night and went to her own room to cry herself to sleep.
Waking in the middle of the night she saw a light in the invalid’s room and, donning robe and slippers, hurried in to find her aunt propped up on her pillow, writing.
“I couldn’t sleep.” Ruth smiled. “So I am writing a letter. Mary has been with me, and she is a rare comfort. Don’t worry about me, dear. I am not afraid now, and I feel much better. Don’t let me forget to have you call Mr. Hastings in the morning. I want him to come out and discuss some important business. There’s no time to waste. Run along back to bed, dear. I am feeling sleepy now. I will put this aside and turn out the light.”
Eleanor turned away with a heavy heart, and after the house was dark again she lay through the rest of the night, sleepless and rebellious. When she looked into the room the next morning, Aunt Ruth was sleeping quietly.
Out in the kitchen Mary sang softly as she prepared breakfast.
There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,
Lose all their guilty stains!
When she saw Eleanor she said, “The poor tired dear was sleepin’ so sweet I had no thought to wake her. We’ll let her get what rest she can from the naggin’ pain. She’ll rouse soon enough.”
But she did not rouse. The doctor came, but there was nothing to be done. Before the day ended, the tired body of this so lately reconciled child of God was freed forever from the pain that had tortured it, and her spirit was safe at home in the Father’s house.
On the table lay the unfinished letter. Its first words, “My dear, dear child,” told Eleanor that it was meant for her, but it was only after the funeral that she could force herself to read it.
My dear, dear child:
I may not have another chance to talk to you, and there is something that must be said. If I could turn back and live the past over again, I would try to teach you many things I failed to give you in these years when I had the opportunity. My sense of values is strangely altered in the light that has just come upon me.
Of one thing I am not sorry. That is the plan for your future. As I have lain here I have begun to see a purpose in all this pain. This world is full of suffering, and this disease that has shattered me has contributed a share of it. No one has yet mastered it. The one who does will do more for mankind than I could do if I lived a thousand years. I am not predicting that you can do all this. But you can help. With your slides and glass you can join the ranks of those who battle disease and help to conquer it. If my going inspires you to do this, I am glad to have suffered.
But I want to say more than this. Mary has talked and prayed with me. I have found the right way at last, I am sure, for I have found Christ. If only I had known Him long ago! I cannot urge you too strongly to commit your path to Christ. He will be the friend and guide you need, for He will never fail you, my child.
The letter was never finished, but Eleanor did not care. She had what she thought was the expression of her aunt’s last wish, and her soul leaped to the challenge that it offered her. Then and there she dedicated her life to a battle with pain. What Aunt Ruth might have said had she been able to finish her letter did not matter. And the important business that she had wanted to discuss with her lawyer was not remembered again until years later when Eleanor wondered how her life might have been changed had her aunt been able to have that talk.
In a few days the lawyer called and, in the presence of Mike and Mary, read the will. There was a generous bequest to these faithful servants—enough to enable them to return to the place of their youth and spend the rest of their lives in comfort on the little farm they had dreamed about but never dared hope to acquire.
Everything else was given to Eleanor. Now she was free to continue her studies, to pursue the course to which she had pledged her life.
Long months ago Eleanor and Aunt Ruth had planned the course Eleanor was to follow—years of school and then laboratory, and Eleanor had always thought she knew all Aunt Ruth’s wishes as to her future. But the last paragraph of the will surprised her.
“This sum of money is to be kept in trust by the said administrator of the estate, and the income given to Eleanor Stewart only until her twenty-fifth birthday, at which time the entire principal shall be turned over to her with no restrictions. If, however, at any time prior to her twenty-fifth birthday, Eleanor contracts a marriage, she shall forfeit all claim to the estate, and the entire sum shall be paid to the Xenia Laboratories to be used in medical research.”
The old lawyer glanced with troubled expression at pretty Eleanor, but she hastened to reassure him. “Don’t let that worry you, Mr. Hastings. Auntie and I understood each other. I have a great work to do and shall never think of marriage, I assure you.”
The next two years flew happily by. Eleanor might have been lonely had she stopped working long enough to think about it, for she made no friends and few acquaintances. No place on earth offers such seclusion as a great city. In a small town, everyone knows everyone else’s private life and feels free to question and discuss at will. But among the millions of tiny atoms composing the population of a large city, one atom can easily escape notice altogether.
Eleanor chose a university in just such a city. Having been out of school for several years, she was older than most of the students and had little sympathy with the lighthearted frivolity of the average youth about her. Her purpose in life was so compelling, her absorption in her work so complete, that she did not feel at all the currents of campus activities flowing and eddying about her. She was a good student and gave careful a
nd diligent preparation to all her studies. English, psychology, and math, however, were to her only necessary and uninteresting tasks that must be done as a part of her preparation for her life work. But in the biological laboratory she was in her element and utterly happy.
Old Professor Nichols, world-renowned scientist, author, and teacher, took an unusual interest in her. Professor Thorne, Eleanor’s high school teacher, was a favorite former pupil of Professor Nichols and wrote enthusiastically of Eleanor’s abilities and interest. And the professor, who had long ago abandoned hope of making any real impression on the hundreds of young folks who filled his lecture rooms each day—at night they appeared in his dreams as conglomerate masses of saddle shoes, lurid neckties, and sloppy sweaters—found in her just the assistant he needed to aid him in the great task to which his remaining years were dedicated. He hoped to publish a textbook that would give to future generations the truths he had so painstakingly acquired during his years of study and research. He had longed to find someone to help him—someone who could catch his vision and materialize his dreams. Eleanor, with her skill with microscope and camera, and with her quick understanding, seemed to have been sent to him for that specific purpose. Together they labored in the laboratory or darkroom, often far into the night. He rejoiced over her patience and persistence and was thankful to the kind Providence who had sent him such an invaluable helper.
Still Eleanor puzzled him. “Miss Eleanor, why do you work so hard?” he asked one day, watching her flushed face and too-bright eyes bent over the specimen before her. “Don’t you ever go to any of the—er—functions most of the young people are so enamored of attending?”
“Never,” replied Eleanor promptly.
“I am overjoyed to have you evince such an interest in our work, especially since my own eyesight is growing less reliable all the time. But—er—even if I am half-blind, I am aware that anyone as attractive as you should spend some time in the company of gentlemen somewhat younger than I. Don’t you know any?”
Professor Nichols was surprised by the earnestness with which Eleanor answered.
“No, I don’t know any and, frankly, am not interested. I don’t want even to think about men. I said I would give my life to work, and I will. I always do as I say and always shall!”
“Well, Miss Stewart, I admire your courage and determination, but that is a strong statement to make.” He laid down his work and looked at her intently as he said, “A long life has taught me that we can’t always do as we will.”
“I think we can, if we will hard enough,” insisted Eleanor, adjusting her microscope with precision.
“Even considering that there are forces against which our own wills are powerless?” continued the old man, his eyes keenly upon her.
“For instance?” she inquired coolly.
“Well,” he replied slowly, “there might be lack of money, for one thing. Failing physical powers are another. Or there is … death. Surely your will could not conquer that.”
“Oh, of course I’m not silly enough to think that. But before I chose my lifework I had met death—in fact, it was one of the signposts on my way. My aunt’s death gave me the inspiration to devote my life to fighting the disease that killed her. Through her death I also inherited the money that will make it possible for me to educate myself for this work. And as for physical disability, I’m not afraid of that for a while. I intend to live quietly, study hard, and keep my mind on my purpose. And I will achieve it. I never give up!”
“Well, Miss Eleanor,” replied the professor soberly, “may God bless you in your ambition! I have devoted my whole life to a cause which I considered worthy, but now that I am bested by blindness and age, my prayers will be with you as you carry on.”
Eleanor lifted her head. “Prayers?” she inquired with a smile.
“Yes. Don’t you pray over your work?”
“Why, no. Why should I? I do my best. How could prayer help?”
“Prayer is difficult to explain to one who has not experienced it. To me, the One who framed all these things with which we work, ‘without whom was not anything made that was made,’ is so all-wise and all-good and all-powerful that I need Him on my side. I feel so utterly weak and insufficient when I stand before His wonders that I just have to pray to Him for guidance in my work.”
Eleanor bent over her task in silence for a few moments. Then she spoke, with some hesitation. “I think I understand you, and yet I can’t see it that way. I believe in God, of course. Studying science has made me sure of Him. Such a wonderfully ordered and designed universe never came by chance. I respect His laws too highly to not believe in Him, but that is as far as I can go with you. Those laws are unchangeable and control everything. I think if I work hard enough I’ll find the ones I need. But,” she concluded triumphantly, “it will take work, not prayer.”
The old professor did not reply. The years had taught him that this bright head bending diligently over the table would have to be bowed under difficult circumstances before Eleanor would really understand his meaning. Further words were useless. He merely said gently, “If the day comes when you need help, Miss Eleanor, perhaps it will comfort you to remember that your old professor prayed—not only for this work, but for you.”
It had been a long time since anyone had shown any personal interest in Eleanor, and this unexpected kindness touched her deeply. When she spoke there was a break in her voice. “Oh, I do appreciate that, and please don’t think me hard. I’m really not. I do get lonely, and I wish I had time for other things. If I could believe in prayer, maybe I could pray and let God do the work and I could rest sometimes. But I don’t think things get done that way. This is my job, and I’m going to do it myself. I do care for your interest, though, and if anyone’s prayers are answered, yours will be.” Then she smiled as she concluded, “You pray, and I’ll work.”
“Seriously, Miss Eleanor,” the professor said, “you would work all the better if you took an evening off sometimes to go to a party or some such affair.”
Eleanor valued this friendly old man’s advice, and, since she really had been lonely, she began to make friendly overtures toward some of the young people for whom she had previously been too busy. Soon she was accepting invitations to parties, concerts, and plays, and only then realized how much she had missed the social life she had known. Professor Nichols was right; she did work better after occasional playtimes.
Christmas was approaching—her second Christmas in college. It means nothing to me, she thought. When Aunt Ruth was here it meant parties and presents, but now if I get any presents I’ll have to buy them myself! Her thoughts flew back wistfully to Christmases she had known at the cottage in the woods, with the candlelight church service at midnight and, whenever possible, sleigh rides through the starlit night around the frozen lake. Then she thought of last Christmas Eve, which she had spent in the laboratory at work. It had been two o’clock in the morning when she had looked up triumphantly from the finished slides, having captured a rare and hitherto-unphotographed form of life after weeks of pursuit. At dawn she had crept into bed and slept through the whole day.
“This year I’ll spend all Christmas week in research at Newton Library,” she promised herself. Eager to begin, she made a special trip to the library before school closed, hoping to leaf through the wonderful volumes in anticipation. But there was a sign on the door, “CLOSED UNTIL JANUARY SECOND FOR REMODELING.”
Now what shall I do with myself? Eleanor wondered as she crossed the campus on the way back to her room. So intent was she on her own thoughts she hardly noticed a cheery woman who looked at her keenly and then halted beside her.
“Why so glum, young lady?”
Eleanor looked up quickly, then smiled. “Why, Carolyn Fleet! I didn’t recognize you. With that red cap on, I thought you were some little freshman out for a lark.”
“Well, I’m not—and you haven’t answered my question.”
“I’m disappointed,” Eleanor admit
ted. “I had planned to spend all next week in research at Newton Library—and now I find it closed.”
“Why, what a thought! You can’t mean it. No one works Christmas week!”
“I do,” Eleanor corrected her. “Or at least I wanted to.”
“I’m glad you can’t,” Carolyn said flatly. “That’s no way to spend Christmas.”
“I haven’t any other way,” said Eleanor. “I haven’t any family. I can’t think of another thing to do.”
“Let me think for you. I can show you how Christmas should be spent, given the proper wherewithal.”
“Well, go ahead and suggest,” continued Eleanor with a slight show of interest.
“First, for myself, I would like to go back East for Christmas where my mother and father are keeping my two youngsters while Fred and I study here. With Christmas coming on I wonder more and more whether even an education and a salary raise are worth being away from Jerry and Dottie during the holidays. Of course, I know they are,” she added hastily, “but if I don’t do something for somebody or his children, I’m going to sit and howl all Christmas week. So I think I’ll adopt you and some other homeless youngsters and make Christmas merry for you in spite of yourselves!”
“Well, I’m willing to be an experiment.” Eleanor smiled.
As they parted Carolyn said, “A two-room apartment may not be the best setting for a Christmas celebration, but it’s all I have to offer. Now if only I had an ancestral farmhouse nearby—but all my ancestors were storekeepers in Connecticut.”
That night, as Eleanor lay in bed, the idea came. Before she was dressed the next morning she telephoned Carolyn and asked excitedly, “Would a big log cottage in the woods do as well as an ancestral farmhouse, Carolyn?”
“Do? It would be perfect. But who has one?”
Not My Will and The Light in My Window Page 2