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:
My dear Eleanor:
I am ashamed not to have written you before this. But Jerry has been very ill and all my thought and time have been given to him. He is better now, and our hearts are full of gratitude to God. We cannot have the usual Christmas hilarity, but we plan a quiet day with our youngsters, and both Fred and I would like to have you with us. Can you come for the week? Or if not for so long, at least for the day? If you will say yes, Fred will drive in to get you. We really want you.
Love,
Carolyn
Eleanor’s answer left Carolyn troubled:
Dear Carolyn:
Thank you very much for your thoughtful kindness. A friendship like yours deserves a better object. I could not possibly prove a pleasant guest this year. And your children should have the best the day can give, especially since they were separated from you last year.
I am expecting to spend the day working, for there is real need for haste on the book if it is to get done before Professor Nichols goes to California for some lectures he has promised to give at Stanwyk University. He wants me to go along, and I may do so. It may be more beneficial to me than regular schoolwork.
In any case, I shall be very busy. Don’t worry about me, dear friend.
With love,
Eleanor
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:
Dear Miss Stewart:
In looking through Chad’s books and papers that were sent home to us, your name has recurred so frequently that we believe you must have held a large place in Chad’s heart. Our hearts all go out affectionately to the girl who meant so much to our boy. We knew last summer that some deeper emotion had wrought a change in him, and felt that it was not just the “cousinly” affection he laughingly declared it when Mary Lou asked about the frequent letters he received.
Am I presuming too much, my dear, in thinking that your sorrow is as deep as our own at this time? We all feel that anyone whom Chad loved is dear to us and belongs with us at this Christmastide, which will be a hard one for us. Will you not come and spend it with us?
Of course, if you have dear ones of your own, we would not ask you to leave them. But if you have no other plans we would like to have you here. My other son is to be married quietly during Christmas week, and we will try to make it a time full of God’s peace and joy, even though it cannot be a merry one.
We have been praying for you and want to know and love you for your own sake as well as Chad’s.
Sincerely,
Margaret Stewart
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.
Dear Mrs. Stewart:
It was kind of you to ask me to spend Christmas with you, but it is necessary to refuse the invitation. I am very busy with some scientific work and have neither the time nor inclination for any social contacts.
Wishing all of you the best the season has to offer, I am
Very truly yours,
Eleanor Stewart
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.
To Eleanor, work was the solution of all difficulties. She now plunged recklessly into study and research, and after several weeks of labor the paper lay on her desk neatly typed and bound.
But California was out of the question. That same night she walked to the telegraph office and wrote out a telegram:
PROFESSOR L F NICHOLS
SUNNY PLAZA HOTEL
LOS ANGELES CALIFORNIA
SORRY IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO COME
BEST WISHES FOR LECTURES
ELEANOR STEWART
Eleanor handed the yellow sheet to the operator at the desk, then turned and walked out the door. She did not go home, however. For several hours she walked up one snowy street and down another, alone except for occasional passersby, from whose gaze the darkness shielded her troubled face. Sometimes she tried unsuccessfully to pray, sometimes she tried to make herself believe that this was all a dream from which she would wake up secure and happy. And sometimes she merely smiled sardonically, thinking wryly that fortune plays strange tricks on people who try to manage their lives to please
themselves.
At last, noticing by a clock in a store window that it was nearly midnight, Eleanor turned her weary steps homeward. Climbing the narrow steps to her room she opened the door, and without turning on the light, flung herself face-down on the cot. There was nothing left to do but face the facts.
“Oh, Chad,” Eleanor whispered softly, “if you had only known!”
But Chad had died without knowing what Eleanor had now learned—that during the coming summer, his child would be born.
Eleanor awoke with the sun streaming into her face. She had slept all night without undressing and was now cold and stiff. She drew a blanket over herself and lay quietly, letting a full realization of her difficulties come over her again.
Did ever any girl have such troubles as I? she thought. Or was anyone so much alone?
Thoughts of Chad crowded in. Sweet thoughts, thoughts that heretofore Eleanor had diligently routed. The longing for him seemed unbearable. If only she could feel that even though dead, he was near her! She had heard that sometimes husbands and wives loved so deeply that the presence of the departed one lingered and kept the other from loneliness. Surely she had loved Chad as much as anyone ever had loved a husband. But he was completely gone, and the silence and emptiness were unbroken.
Perhaps if she were to go back where he used to be, she could draw him close again!
Eleanor dressed quickly and went to the library to one particular corner where Chad had preferred to sit with his books. There sprawled a fat, pimply-faced youth munching potato chips. She turned away with a shiver.
Next she tried the room at the laboratory where they had eaten their lunches. Peering in quietly at the door, she saw a new assistant busily rearranging the room. Apparently he had taken away the little table they had used to spread out their sandwiches and books.
Our apartment, thought Eleanor. I’ll go there!
The streetcar was filled with laboring men in blue overalls just coming off their shift in the mill instead of the students Eleanor and Chad had always seen. Eleanor swayed back and forth on the strap and formulated her plan. If the apartment were still vacant, she would see the landlord and ask him if she might go in to look for a ring she had lost. And maybe she would find Chad there.
But the windows were not empty. From the street Eleanor could see a little fuzzy head over the back of a high chair, and in another window a tiny blue sweater drying on a frame. There was nothing here to help her, and she turned away disconsolately.
Suddenly a thought came to her. The cottage! she exclaimed almost aloud. I must go there! I can rest there, and I do believe Chad will be there waiting for me!
By midafternoon Eleanor had packed her few possessions into trunks, called the express company, turned in her room keys, and notified the registrar that she was dropping her classes. She was almost happy as she started for the railroad station.
It was growing dark when the train stopped at the flag station to let off a young lady passenger, and by the time she had walked a mile and a half through the woods to the cottage, night had fallen. But Eleanor was not afraid. This was familiar ground. As she opened the door to the big living room the chill air smote her, but as soon as she had turned on the light she felt better.
Hurrying across the floor, she stopped and touched a match to the paper under the logs and kindling that Chad had laid there weeks before. The davenport was still before the fireplace and seemed to reach out friendly, inviting arms. So Eleanor disappeared into the bedroom to come back in a moment with pillows and blankets. Then, while the fire snapped and crackled, she lay on the couch where she had sat with Chad and, for the first time since his death, allowed herself to think freely of him. As she stared at the flames, her eyes grew heavy and finally dropped in sleep. And once more she was wandering through the autumn woods with Chad laughing beside her.
He still seemed near the next morning, and all day as Eleanor roamed the house the presence lingered. The whole cottage was to her a picture gallery, with each room and corner bringing back its remembrance.
I’ll stay right here, Eleanor thought, comparing this sweet comfort with the emptiness of the past weeks. The house is tight and the furnace good. The farmer will bring in my groceries from town, and I needn’t work anymore. I’m tired, and I’ll just stay here and live with my memory pictures of Chad.
She had no difficulty arranging matters. Sven Oleson, the young farmer, had just moved out to the farm and was eager to please. His mother-in-law lived with them and would be glad to help Eleanor with the housework.
After a few weeks, however, Hulda came to the cottage to stay. She loved to scour and sweep and to spend hours in the kitchen cooking and baking dishes that she hoped would increase the young lady’s lagging appetite. She also tried to interest Eleanor in cooking and sewing, but soon found her efforts were useless.
Eleanor cared only for the Picture Gallery. When she worked about with old Hulda, reality pressed too closely upon her, and the pain in her breast awoke to life again. So she let Hulda do the work, and she wandered through the woods, talking to the presence at her side. Or she lay before the fire dreaming that Chad’s arms were around her.
Occasionally there were bad times when the pictures faded, and Eleanor knew it was foolish to deceive herself. But the dreams were so pleasant and the reality so cruel that more and more she took refuge in her memories.
When April came, she gathered wildflowers and mosses and built the rock garden she and Chad had planned. In May the woods were full of flowers, and she made the collection they had intended to do together. Many hours were spent with her camera. Eleanor was glad she had fitted up a darkroom to develop pictures, for the presence seemed very near in the darkness.
She secured wildflower and bird slides so exquisite that she thrilled to their beauty. As she worked she would murmur softly, “We’ll put these in a book someday, won’t we, Chad?”
Late in June, when the strawberries were red under the green leaves, and the young robins had all learned to fly away from the nest by the porch, Eleanor told Hulda good-bye and locked the door of the cottage again.
“You’ll be comin’ back again after a while, won’t you?” asked the old lady, with tears in her eyes, for Eleanor had grown very dear to her. “Comin’ back and bringin’ the little one?”
But Eleanor kissed the wrinkled hand lying on her own round arm and said absently, “I don’t know, Hulda. I’ll let you know.”
August. The white walls of a hospital. High beds, and blurred pictures of doctors and nurses coming and going, bright lights, and finally a thin, wailing little cry.
“You have a son, Mrs. Stewart,” the doctor said.
Eleanor nodded apathetically, and the doctor wondered.
On a sunny, shimmering afternoon the nurse let her go out on the sun porch. After the nurse had taken the baby back to his basket in the nursery, Eleanor lay in the long deck chair and let her gaze wander across the valley to the far-off hills with purple shadows beneath them and white clouds above. Near at hand all she could see were the tops of the trees clustering about the hospital. As she looked down at them, the soft green appeared so restful Eleanor imagined it to be a great, cool bed into which she could sink down, down until she found sleep and oblivion. Lying with half-closed eyes quietly gazing at that cool, green bed, Eleanor finally drifted off into the first really sound sleep she had had in weeks.
She was awakened by the sound of voices coming from the other end of the porch. The screen and some palms hid her from view, and she could not help but listen, as the voices carried clearly to her ears. She was able to identify one voice as that of her doctor; the other was unfamiliar.
“Those are the only two babies I could find,” Dr. Durbin said. “I called up three different hospitals, and this one little Italian girl baby is the only one available on such short notice. The nurse said she is a beautiful child. The little fellow we have here is not so attractive, as you noticed. We thought at first he wouldn’t pull through
, but he is finally starting to take hold on life. He may be a fine fellow yet. That’s all I can do for you. Take your choice.”
Eleanor held her breath and listened intently.
“Well, I want a nice healthy one, but certainly not an Italian,” the other voice said. “And I have to have some baby at once. Isn’t there any other source to which you could go?”
“Man, we don’t have baby factories! Sane people like to keep their babies. You’d better take the little girl and be glad you got her.”
“I tell you, an Italian child won’t do. Tell me about the boy again.”
“Not much to tell.” Was there contempt in Dr. Durbin’s voice? “The mother says the father was killed last winter. Insists she can’t care for the child and doesn’t seem interested in it. I feel that she came here to this little place to get away from the notice of friends or relatives. There’s one thing—she says the baby must be placed with Christian parents. Aside from that condition, she apparently wants only to forget it.”
“What if she should some day change her mind and try to claim it?”
“Not a chance. She’ll never know where it is. It wouldn’t be fair to the adoptive parents for a real parent to have any information that might make for trouble later.”
“Well—” and a chair scraped back “—I guess it will have to be the boy, then. I wish I had more time, but I haven’t. Let’s go look at him again.”
Another chair scraped, then footsteps faded away down the corridor. Eleanor lay with a pale, expressionless face. Perhaps some day she would wake up and feel sorry. Just now she couldn’t feel anything except an utter weariness of life. There was a great lump in her heart that left no room for joy or sorrow.
She ought to be feeling very bad now. This was her baby being given away like a kitten or a puppy—but she couldn’t believe it. Once when she was a little girl she had grieved for days after seeing a little, squirming, blind ball of fur separated from the mother collie. But she was not grieving now. When this little bundle of flannel she saw five times a day was taken away, it would mean that that part of her life, of which it was the only remnant, would be forever past. She would be glad when it was over. At least she hoped she would be glad again. It was so long since she had been glad about anything.
Not My Will and The Light in My Window Page 10