Not My Will and The Light in My Window

by Francena H. Arnold

  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.

  28

  After 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.

  Dear Hope,

  Don’t think I’ve forgotten that talk I promised you. It’s only postponed. I don’t know when I’ll get back to the Institute. Dad is much better, but I am still needed. Two of my sisters are here, and Clare (that’s Bill’s mother) is expected soon. I’ll sure be glad to see that gal! She’s got a head on her shoulders, and we could use a good one right now. Dad gets harder to manage as he gets better, and the nurses are about to go crazy. I am the little fellow who runs all the errands and acts as buffer between the opposing elements. Bill takes care of a bunch of her small cousins.

  Some day soon I hope you will meet my family. They are nice folks, and I’m sure you’ll like them if you aren’t frightened by the number of them. You see, I have five sisters, five brothers-in-law, seven nieces, and three nephews. All nice folks, as I said, but Bill is the pick of the crowd.

  Have you forgiven me yet for not telling you that I am her uncle? At first I didn’t intend to deceive you. I never thought anything about it, or you either, for that matter. Then when I decided to stay at the Institute, I wanted to be your friend, and I got the idea that, for some reason, you disliked all men except those already anchored. I found out that you thought I was gone on Bill, and I let you continue so to think. I had a hunch that if you knew I was unattached and quite smitten with your charms you’d fly the coop at once. I didn’t want you to do that until I’d had a chance to smite you with my charms. I thought for a while it was a forlorn hope, for you almost bit my head off every time I looked at you. But the Institute atmosphere is a great softening agent, isn’t it? You and I have both changed a bit this year. Yes?

  Hope, it’s hard to wait until I can see you. You know what I wanted to say, don’t you? I don’t know when I’ll get back there, and I want this settled now. Ever since Christmas I have known you were the girl for me, and I don’t see why I should wait any longer to tell you so. Now that you know I was never a suitor for the hand of Wilhelmina, won’t you consider me in the role of suitor for the hand of the other (and to me, much more desirable) princess in the tower? Joking aside, Hope, I love you very much and had hoped to persuade you ere this to promise to marry me when I have settled down enough to have something definite to offer you. I don’t know when I can come to you. Dad is not out of danger, though the doctors are very encouraging. I could not risk being away, for when it’s Stan he wants—it’s Stan he wants!

  I’d be a lot happier and more content with my lot if I knew that this state of agonizing bliss I am in were shared by you. If you were an ordinary girl I’d be sure by this time where I stood. You’re not ordinary, and I’m scared stiff! Please, Hope. Remember I love you, and, seriously now, I’m praying with all my newfound faith that God will give you to me and will bless our lives together.

  Again, I love you.

  Stan

  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 win
ter. 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.

  Dear Stan:

  I wish I didn’t have to write this to you, but the thing has to be faced, and this is the only way I know to do it. It wouldn’t work, Stan, honestly it wouldn’t. I’m not the kind of girl you need, and if you knew all about me you’d realize I’m not the kind you want. I wish I could be a different sort of girl. I have tried, and I think I have made some progress. I know I love the Lord better than I ever did, and I hope to do something with my life that will be a testimony for Him. But I can’t let any man—and especially not you, Stan—be handicapped with the unfortunate personality that I know Hope Thompson to be. I couldn’t stand to accept love and then lose it, and it just couldn’t last. All my life the things I have longed for have been snatched away, and I’m not going to risk more hurt.

  Please don’t think I doubt you, for I don’t. But I do doubt myself. So please forget me. By the time you come back to the Institute I shall try to be gone, and wherever I go I shall remember you as the best friend I ever had. I shall pray that someday you will find the right girl to bring you happiness.

  Please remember me as your friend.

  Hope

  The answer came before she thought it possible.

  Dear Hopeless!

  So you’re back again, are you? I thought you and Groucho and the rest of your ilk had gone forever. I guess you will have to tell Dr. Stan all about it, and maybe just getting it off your chest will help some.

  When first I read that letter I was almost sore at you. It didn’t make any sense at all. It was just plain “baloney,” to quote some of my Sherman Street pals. But when I read it the next time it tugged a bit at my heart, and by the time I’d read it a dozen times, it was pretty hard for me to refrain from hopping the next train. I’m not half so downcast as you probably think me. I found lots of things to encourage me. Such phrases as “and especially not you, Stan” and “the things I’ve longed for” told me that you aren’t entirely untouched by my charms. Only the necessity of my presence here keeps me from coming at once to tell you what a flop you are as a rejecter.

  Hope, honey, I can’t come to you. Clare and Dirk are home at last, but I’m still a captive. Dad has five daughters but only one son, and that one has to be on duty twenty-four hours a day until things are better. So please, please, please do this for me.

  I’ve known ever since I met you that you’re all tied up with some sort of an inhibition. I didn’t major in psychology for nothing. Some place back in your childhood there was something that left a scar, something that frightened and hurt you. Won’t you sit down and write it all out to me? If I were there we’d go out to the lake shore some day and sit on a stone slab, and you’d confess or I’d duck you! You are afraid of life, with a senseless unreasoning fear that is unworthy of the fine Christian girl I know you to be. You’ve repressed emotions until they have become poison. You have to get it out of your system, and who is so safe a confessor as “Uncle Stan”? I can assure you that no one in the world cares so much or will hear you so understandingly or judge you so lovingly.

  As I said before, I can’t come to you without harming Dad. Nevertheless, if you won’t write and tell me what it’s all about, I’m coming anyway. I’m not asking this of you just out of idle curiosity. I know that the only way to get rid of shadows is to let in the light. If you’ll open up your soul’s windows I’ll guarantee to furnish love enough to drive out the shadows. Just now you are a confused child, afraid to let love come near you. But you are going to wake up someday, and I sure want to be there when you do. I used to watch you when you didn’t know I was looking, and I caught glimpses of a beautiful woman that I want to know better.

  I’m telling you again that I love you more than you can comprehend. After I get all the kinks out of your disposition I expect to spend the rest of my life proving that love to you. I will be waiting patiently, or otherwise, for the confession.

  Stan

  As Hope read this letter, a desire came to her to do just the thing he asked. She had kept her fears, her loneliness, and her heartache to herself so many years that it would be very hard to open her heart now. Yet Stan’s understanding sympathy made her want to lay aside the barriers and tell him all. Perhaps when she got it written she would not have the courage to send it, but she would write it anyway. She could burn it if she decided not to send it.

  After Hope had started, it was easy to write. So sure was she of Stan’s understanding that she felt a freedom of expression that she had never known before. She was so desirous of making her stand plain to him that she held back nothing. The sorrow of her mother’s death, the obsession of stepmother fear that had made her father’s marriage such a fearful thing to her, the horror that came to her when she inadvertently discovered that even Daddy was not her own, the years when she worked to discharge the obligation she owed, feeling all the time that she was an outsider and wanted only bec
ause she was needed—all these she told. She recounted the story of her love and trust in Jerry and her shock on discovering that he was not true to her.

  Don’t think I’m worrying about him or grieving for him, for I am not. I am even glad that he and Grace are to be married. Even if he were free and came to me I could never care for him again—not ever! I want you to believe that, Stan. My ideals have changed in the past year, and he doesn’t fit them any more.

  It’s myself I doubt, Stan. I don’t think I could ever trust myself enough to risk trying to make anyone else happy. I have learned from watching Phil and Eleanor these past months how wonderful married life can be when things are right. No other thing would ever satisfy me, but I’m afraid to risk trying to achieve it.

  How could I know if it were real love? Daddy thought he loved Mother, but when she was gone he forgot her and married Mother Bess. If Mother had lived, he might have found out that he didn’t love her. Then too, if I were wrong once about loving a man, I could be wrong again. Or, if I really had loved him, how could I forget so easily? Life is such a complex affair that I don’t think I can ever be sure of anything.

  You’re the best friend I have ever had, Stan. I have never been able to tell this to anyone else. I value your friendship so much that I don’t like to risk hurting you. Please remember me as a friend and try to forget that you ever wanted any other relationship. It just wouldn’t work.

  Stan’s answer to that letter was prompt.

  This discussion is tabled until such time as I can come in person and do some persuading. I am going to personally supervise the opening of some of your soul’s windows to let in the light. You’ve had the shades drawn too long. More of that later.

  I went house hunting today. When I bring you here to live, I want a house all ready for you. Alyce and her family live with Dad, and I think that’s enough for one house. So, as I said, I went house hunting. It isn’t so simple as it sounds. This isn’t a large town, and all the houses seem to be filled. But I’ll find something. You just be getting your hope chest ready.