Angela and Billy will both go home for four days. They live here in the city, so it’s no problem for them. In fact they live only a few blocks apart. I have discovered that they attended rival high schools, which gives them another topic for warfare. I anticipate that long weekend with the keenest delight. The silence in our room will be balm to my soul.
That soul needs some kind of balm tonight. For the first time in my life I have been laughed at, and I didn’t like it. I admit the incident was funny, but Dr. King needn’t have rubbed it in.
(Yes, I call him Dr. all the time now, because I get so tired of hearing Angela and his other devotees calling him Philip.)
Last night we had a party in the gym to help the students get better acquainted with each other. The youngsters’ chatter didn’t interest me, so I decided to hunt up some lonesome-looking youths and maids to see if I could help them. I had just settled comfortably in a corner to talk to a bashful-looking lad named Dick Dunlap, who needs to have his self-confidence built up, when someone started a game of Bible baseball.
I agreed to take part, though I had qualms about my batting abilities, Bible study having been added to my life so recently.
At first all went well, and as I happened to have questions “pitched” at me that reminded me of the book of Bible stories in Aunt Ruth’s library, I found myself in the position of star player on my team. Dr. King was the pitcher for the other team, but even against him I was going strong. Suddenly he threw a wicked curve ball at me, so to speak. “Who was Ahab’s wife?” he asked.
Quick as a wink I answered, “Beelzebub!”
Horrors, how they laughed! It was funny, I admit. I laughed too. But I don’t think Dr. King had to be quite so amused. He acted as though it was the first joke he had heard in a year.
Then today in class (I take Old Testament History under him) he asked me if I didn’t want to teach the class. Everyone laughed again. Now that wasn’t kind. However, I’m trying not to let it bother me. It’s just that being laughed at is a new experience, and I haven’t learned to like it yet.
Angela and Billy continue to wrangle. Did I tell you that I have discovered that both of their fathers are on the board of trustees at Bethel? There’s a difference, though. Billy’s father is just a member. Angela’s father is chairman and is thinking of giving a new library building.
Every time I go, I enjoy the work at the institute more. I wanted to work in the kindergarten but was assigned to the high school girls and am teaching handcrafts and conducting a Bible class on Friday nights. Dr. King preaches at the institute twice on Sundays and is director of all the work there. He is more likeable when he is there than he is in the classroom. He really has a genius for that kind of work. The other day he said, “If my wife were stronger I’d like to give up teaching and live at the institute and just see what work for the Lord could be done in such a place.” I don’t know what ails his wife. Apparently she doesn’t go out much, for I haven’t ever seen either her or the baby, which I am told is now over a year old.
Still no luck in finding a baby I could help mother. I thought surely I could find one easily in the institute neighborhood. But those poor folk down there seem to be rich in love, at least. No matter how ragged and hungry and cold they are, or how many babies they already have, they hang tenaciously on to their newest offspring and seem to love it as much as they loved their first. I find myself spending every spare penny buying little things to help them. But I can’t ask any of them to give me a baby!
I’ll be thinking of you all on Thanksgiving day and am already looking forward to Christmas. Am going now to practice in one of the music rooms with Dick Dunlap (the bashful boy I talked to at the party). He says he sings a little but hasn’t practiced since he came. He’s the nicest youngster I’ve met here. He is in the seminary, comes from Arizona, and is pretty homesick. He is afraid of most of the girls but evidently thinks I’m a motherly soul and quite safe.
Tell Mary Lou I haven’t had a letter from her since I came. Give my love to all, even the calves.
Len
The Farm—November 12
Dear Len:
I am not a very good writing person. It gets me very tired. But I am lonesome today and cross at my family. Not at Mother. She is always all right. But sometimes Bob and Connie are a trial to me. And Marilyn is always sympathetic with Bob. So I feel quite alone.
It all started at breakfast. Mother wasn’t down because she had a headache, and I asked if I could lead in the breakfast prayer. Then, when I started, I forgot that I wasn’t alone, and I prayed just as if only God could hear me. And I prayed for my husband. Bob and Connie laughed right out. Do you think that was nice? I don’t. I bet you wouldn’t have laughed. Every girl expects to be married some day and getting the right kind of man isn’t easy. So I thought I’d start praying early to keep from making some awful mistake and marrying someone like Pete Novak down the road. Maybe it did sound funny to Bob and Connie, but they needn’t have laughed so hard. I know now how you feel toward P. K.
Mother got up after a while, and she told me it was all right and for me to keep on praying for my husband, and my children too. So I felt better.
There are four new calves since you left. And Scotty had three little puppies. And a cow stepped on a hen and broke her leg, and Bob wanted to kill her, and I took her and bandaged her leg and put a stick on it for a splint and hid her in the barn, and she got all right, and Bob said I was a good doctor. He is an all-right brother sometimes.
I must quit. I think I smell popcorn. Perhaps I should go out and forgive Bob and Connie.
Hugs and kisses,
Mary Lou
Bethel, November 15
Dear folks:
I am quite the most humble person on the campus tonight, and the Lord has given me such a happy experience that I feel ashamed of my unworthiness. I can’t write of anything else till I tell you about it. I really should have been ashamed to let Dr. King’s teasing bother me, but it did. I guess I got so used to Professor Nichols calling me his star pupil, etc., that I thought the place was mine for keeps. And when Dr. King kept teasing me about Beelzebub, I resented it. Every time he got a chance he spoke of it, until I began to dread meeting him.
Then day before yesterday, a group of us were standing in the big hall outside the dining room waiting for the dinner bell. On the table near the door was a beautiful plant that some kind friend had sent in, and we were all admiring it. Angela was by my side, and suddenly, in the sweet high tone she uses when Dr. King is near, she asked, “Isn’t it just divine? What gives it so many different shades of green?”
I was just ready to answer her and say, “God” (for it wouldn’t have done a bit of good to explain nature’s secret coloring processes to Angela) when Dr. King’s voice, cool and assured, cut in. “That’s simple. You see, each cell of the middle part of the leaves contains in its chloroplasm small green bodies called cytoplasts, which are responsible for the green color of the leaves.”
Now if I had stopped for one second to collect my thoughts, I’d never have spoken, because no one else noticed that he had twisted those words. And it really didn’t make a bit of difference. But the old spirit of setting things right rose up in me, and before I thought I burst forth with this:
“Oh, no! Each cell contains in its cytoplasm the chloroplasts that make the color.”
I was sorry at once, and the silence that came over the group was so profound that it fairly smote my ears. Then it was shattered by Dr. King’s voice, laughing and insolent.
“Professor Nichols would be glad to hear your explanation, I am sure, Mrs. Stewart. He will probably change his textbook if you’ll correct him. I didn’t know you knew your biology as well as you do your Old Testament.”
That last was really a mean dig, and for a moment my “almost-red-headed temper,” as Chad used to say, threatened to get out of control. But I am learning slowly to trust my Lord for even such little things, and He gave me grace to smile and let
it pass. But ever since then I have been ashamed of feeling so annoyed.
Then, this morning as I was leaving chapel, I was given a notice to call at the office at once. Immediately fearful that something was wrong with you dear ones at home, I hurried down. There sat the impeccably handsome Dr. King, waiting for me.
“Won’t you come in here, Mrs. Stewart?” he asked, indicating an empty conference room. I walked in, and he came in and closed the door. I couldn’t imagine what on earth was up. We both sat down.
“Mrs. Stewart, first of all I must apologize to you,” he said, with so much diffidence and humility that I could hardly believe it was really happening.
“What for?” I asked, although I had a good idea.
“For my inexcusable rudeness the other day. I was ashamed of myself at once, even when I still thought you wrong, but since I found out who you are, I have been eating humble pie in great quantities.”
My mouth dropped open. “How—what—why—” I began.
“I’ll begin at the beginning, so as not to keep you in suspense. Professor Spencer, who teaches botany, is ill—with measles, of all things. Can you figure out why an old man should take such a disease? Anyway, he will be gone for at least two weeks. Well, we didn’t have anyone to take his classes. So this morning I called the university, asking them if they could send someone here to substitute for two weeks. I wonder if you could guess whom they recommended?”
My brain just didn’t function. I sat and looked stupid.
“Their answer was that they didn’t have anyone to send, but that Miss Eleanor Stewart, who collaborated with Professor Nichols on the textbook we use at Bethel, was now attending Bethel College and could undoubtedly fill the vacancy satisfactorily.”
“Oh, my!” I managed to gasp.
“Feeling quite small,” P. K. continued, “I crept away from the phone and went to find one of those textbooks. Of course I discovered that you were right and I was completely wrong. Then I read Professor Nichols’s foreword containing the tribute to your work and was reduced one or two more sizes. I felt as small as even you could desire.”
“But, really—” I began.
He waved me quiet. “Please say that you will forgive me for having been so rude. Then come over and let me introduce you to the botany class. Will you teach it?”
“Oh, yes!” I think my delight must have been written all over my face. “But what about my regular class work?”
“You are excused from your other classes for the necessary time.”
I never knew P. K. could be so humble. I was ashamed of having been so pettish. In a chastened mood, I walked across the campus with him, and he gave me a good introduction to the class. So I am now teaching at Bethel. And Dr. King has promised to see that no one ever says Beelzebub to me again!
This is already a long letter, but I have one more thing to tell. I’ve written you about enjoying the babies in the park. I have become acquainted with some of the mothers, and they let me play with their babies. One young mother, especially, has attracted me from a distance because of her unusual beauty. She has seemed very reserved, however, so I never approached her. I thought she must have a tiny baby, as its head never came popping out of the carriage.
But one day last week I noticed her sitting alone on a bench, and then as I drew near I heard the baby screaming and saw her wipe her eyes. She looked so tired and upset I had to stop.
“What’s the matter with this young fellow?” I asked. (I could tell it was a boy because no girl would bellow like that!)
She looked up and smiled such a weary, teary smile and said, “He wants me to wheel him some more, and I’m too tired!”
There was my chance. I said, “Oh, can I do it for you?”
She looked as if she thought I might want to kidnap that howling bundle, so I hastened to introduce myself as a Bethel student and showed her my library card for corroboration.
“Oh, I know you—or at least my husband does,” she exclaimed, looking at the card. “I am Mrs. Philip King.”
I turned to the baby, who was still howling his little head off. Oh, Mother, it almost broke my heart to look at him! He is over a year old but so thin and sick-looking. And such a tantrum he was having! Poor Mrs. King looked ready to drop. So I left my books with her, and I walked that young man for an hour until he fell asleep. When I got back, little Mrs. King was curled up on that park bench with her head on my books, sound asleep herself. Poor thing! She had probably been up all night with him.
We walked back to the school together, and she told me all about the baby. He has never been well, and she herself is far from strong. The baby is so fussy that she is the only one who can care for him, and she is almost exhausted. I asked if Dr. King couldn’t relieve her at night, but she cried, “Oh, no!” so quickly that I knew I had touched on a delicate subject. Then she hastened to say, “You see, my husband was hurt just before the baby came, and it was months before he was able to be about again. Even now he must be careful.”
I thought to myself that he looked a great deal better able to lose a little sleep than she did, but of course I didn’t say so. An idea had come to me. I was almost afraid to offer it, but I finally did. Of course you know what the idea was—to help her care for that fussy baby.
To my joy, she accepted. She had seen me in the park every day, so knew I meant it when I said I loved babies. When I told her about having been separated from my own little one, she agreed to let me borrow hers for an hour or so every afternoon. Isn’t that great? She is going to stay at home and rest, and I’m going to “walk” the poor little boy. That isn’t exactly the kind of vicarious motherhood I had planned, but it’s better than none.
Must close now and get some sleep. If I keep on writing, I’ll have to send my letter by express.
Love to all,
Len
Thanksgiving night at Bethel
Dear folks:
Had a lovely day with Fred and Carolyn and the children. Helped Carolyn with dinner and then the dishes afterward, and later we had some jolly games. Things were so lively that I didn’t have one minute during the day to “think backward.” They brought me home about nine, for I wanted to get to bed early and get a real rest. But as I crossed the campus I met Charlie, the night watchman, and he told me that the doctor had just gone into the Kings’s and he feared someone was ill. Then, as I passed the King apartment, I heard their baby crying. If I had stopped to think, my courage would have failed, but I just walked in, found the door unlatched, and ran up the stairs.
A distracted-looking Philip King opened the door to let me in. I found the baby screaming in his room, and Dr. Ferris, our school medic, in the dining room. Without standing on ceremony I said, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you manage a spoiled baby?”
“I think I can,” I said. “Will you let me try?”
“Go right ahead,” he said abruptly. “Mrs. King has had a bad heart attack, and the baby is worrying her.”
So I followed the uproar and found the baby. He was frightened and angry, and for a while I made no impression on him whatsoever. But then some of my experience with baby Patty came back to me, and I remembered that she was best quieted by a quiet person. So I sat in a chair and rocked and prayed, and finally the poor little chap went off to sleep.
I laid him in his bed and returned to the living room, where Dr. Ferris and Dr. King were talking. Mrs. King was sleeping but had to be kept quiet and watched closely. Dr. Ferris said he would send a nurse in the morning, but Dr. King would have to care for her until then.
When I heard that, I spurred up my courage and asked if I could have the baby for the night. I think they were both relieved at the suggestion, and Dr. Ferris helped me transfer the baby’s paraphernalia to my own room.
So here I am with a baby on my hands. I pushed two beds against the wall and put him on the inner one to sleep, while I’m sitting on the side of the other, keeping guard. I shall lie down presently b
ut doubt if I shall sleep. The presence of a sleeping baby boy does things to me, but don’t worry about me, as I really am enjoying this.
More later—Len
Monday night, Bethel
Dearest of mothers:
Well, my baby went back home yesterday afternoon. Dr. King got a girl to care for him, and I spent an hour telling her how to do everything. Then I had to kiss him good-bye and leave him. It was wonderful while it lasted. Except for a few flareups, we got along nicely. Of course, I couldn’t have managed it if Billy and Angela had been around-one spoiled child is enough—but Mrs. Sperry, the housemother, helped out, and we really had fun. I believe the baby is beginning to like me. He has smiled at me several times, but he’s such a puny little fellow, and his smile was so pathetic that I almost cried. Mrs. Sperry told me some things that shed light on the King situation.
The Kings had been married five years before the baby came. They were overjoyed at the thought of being parents. But just two weeks before it was born, Philip was hurt in an accident. Then when the baby came it wasn’t well, and I guess the care and worry made Mrs. King sick.
The odd part of it is that Dr. King doesn’t seem much interested in the baby. He had been so enthusiastic about being a parent too. Perhaps it’s because the baby is so frail and unattractive. It could be, too, that he resents the little boy’s having ruined his wife’s health. It is very obvious that he worships the ground Lorraine (his wife) walks on.
I’m planning some big Christmas doings at the institute before I leave for home. Billy is working down there with me now and is a real help. Underneath all her faults she has a kind heart, and her little head is full of sensible ideas. Angela has asked for an assignment at the institute also—so she can bask in the sunlight of P. K.’s smile, I suspect. She moons over him all the time. If I were he I’d fail her and send her home. But I presume one can’t do that to the chairman’s daughter.
Dr. Hale (president of the college, in case you’ve forgotten) isn’t at all well. He had some sort of attack last week and hasn’t been in the office since. Dr. Cortland, the dean of men, is doing the headwork in his absence, and Dr. King is doing the footwork. At least he seems to be chasing hither and yon all the time. He reminds me of a boy who played in our high school orchestra and kept seven or eleven instruments going all the time. Dr. Cortland is my favorite of all the teachers. I have him for New Testament. He would make a wonderful grandfather. He’s very sympathetic, and sometimes when my morale has wavered a little he has just the right word to steady me again.
Not My Will and The Light in My Window Page 18
