Not Under the Law

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Junior! Who was that man?” screamed Nannette, rushing back into the house. But Junior had a realizing sense of his disloyalty to his family and had fled to his bed with the covers tucked tightly around his ears and his eyes screwed shut as if in deep slumber. When rudely shaken into being, he yawned reprovingly and asked, “What man?”

  Nannette brought him at last to a proper appreciation of the necessity, and he nonchalantly replied, “Oh, him? He’s our coach, Darcy Sherwood. You just oughtta see him pitch a ball. He’s some crackerjack pitcher.”

  Questioned further concerning the package, he said he guessed some old woman had sent it to Joyce. He guessed it was some seeds or “sumpin’” to put on Grandma’s grave.

  The mother and father looked at one another completely puzzled.

  “He certainly had no right to go away that way without telling me where he saw Joyce,” declared Eugene angrily. “Now I suppose I shall have to go out and find him. The insolent sucker! He thought he had me in a hole. I won’t go after him. Let him go to the dogs. Probably he never saw Joyce at all. What difference does it make if he did? Serves her right if she gets in trouble. I’m not going to hunt him up, that’s certain. I’ll get a detective. What’s he got to do with Joyce anyhow, I’d like to know?”

  “Then everybody’ll find out,” wailed Nannette.

  “What’s the difference if they do? They’ll find out if she doesn’t come back at all, won’t they? You haven’t a brain cell working. You’re just like a woman!”

  “But, Gene, why don’t you see that this man is the only clue you have to where she was last seen?”

  “Well, what if he is? Do you think I’m going crawling to a man that entered my house that way? Say! That’s an idea! I’ll have him arrested for housebreaking. He came into my house against my express command. I told him we were retiring. I told him I would talk to him outside. But he just opened the door and walked in and said we would talk inside. I’ll call up the police and have him arrested before he gets home, that’s what I’ll do. Then we’ll tell him we’ll release him when he tells us where Joyce is. Perhaps he’s got her kidnapped somewhere. Perhaps he knows more than he’s willing to tell!”

  But while they were discussing it, Darcy Sherwood was striding over the meadows and vaulting the fences back of their house till he reached the public highway along which Joyce had walked the evening before.

  Chapter 6

  When Joyce felt her wrists clasped in that iron grip in the darkness and felt the hot breath of a man on her face, she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. All the stories of horrors in the night, of holdups and bandits and kidnappings, came to her mind as she struggled vainly for a moment in that viselike grip. She tried to scream, though she knew she was too far away from houses to reach the ear of any people who lived around unless someone happened to be going along that road; and people did not go along that road at night unless they had to. It was lonely and desolate and out of the way from the main highway, a quiet, remote place for the dead. She had a quick feeling of thankfulness that Aunt Mary, who had always been so careful for her safety, so anxious when she was out alone at night, was where she could not be alarmed; a quick wish that she could call to her. Then the thought of God came, and her heart cried for help.

  The flashlight sprung in her face sent her almost swooning. She was conscious that her senses were going from her and that she must somehow prevent herself from going out this way in the dark, and then up through the billows of blackness that were surging to envelop her soul, she heard her own name in startled, almost tender tones. “Joyce!”

  And back through the blackness she came again to earth and consciousness and opened her eyes, straight into the eyes that searched her face, answering the call of that strangely familiar voice. “Oh—was it you?”

  There was troubled relief in her voice as she said it, relief as if she would rather have had back the terror than to have found this one involved in the mystery. There was question, pain, almost reproach in her tone; there was judgment held in suspense, as if her soul rejected the witness of her eyes. Then, as if she could not bear the conclusion of her own judgment, she cried out earnestly, “Oh, what were you doing there?”

  He dropped her hands as if they had been shot away from him, and his head drooped—stooped perhaps would be better—as if a great burden had suddenly been let upon his shoulders. He tried to speak, and his voice was husky; the words did not come from his lips. He half turned away with a motion as if he would hide his face.

  Then a low, stealthy whistle rasped between them, and he started back toward her. “Go!” he said quickly. “Go! You must not be seen here! Joyce—little Joyce—” The last syllables were scarcely audible. She heard them in her soul afterward, like a long echo of a very fine whisper. A clear whistle close beside her, resonant, remembered from childhood, sounded just above her bowed head as she turned, and she knew he was signaling to the rest.

  “Go! Straight down the road! Keep in the shadow. I’ll come back after a while and find you,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid—” And in the same breath, louder, “All right, kid, nothing but a scared rabbit. We’ll go up the other way.”

  He was striding away from her rapidly into the darkness, and she stood almost petrified in the road where he left her till she heard a rough laugh of one of his companions and fear lent strength to her feet once more and sped her down the road again.

  Her heart was beating wildly, and her thoughts were in chaos. She could not think nor analyze her own feelings. She could only fly along in the shadow, stumbling now and again. Over a rough bit of road, straining her ears to listen for sounds behind her, casting a fearful glance back.

  But the darkness was reassuring. The dimmed lights of the automobile that had stood by the roadside were no longer visible. The men had gone away in the other direction. She was alone on the road—with at least another mile to go before she could turn again into the highway, and she found an overwhelming tremble upon her. Her very spirit seemed to be quivering with it. The night that had been warm and balmy now seemed fearsome and cold, and she shivered as she tried to hurry along. Now and then the moon swept out and threw her shadow along the way, and she glanced furtively behind her and shrank into the shadow of the elderberry bushes by the fence. Once a wild rabbit scuttled across the road and startled her so that she almost fell. She began to reproach herself for having gone away from home in this silly aimless way, losing her temper like a child and walking out from safety and protection without preparation. She wondered if God was angry with her for it. She wondered why she had done it and what she was going to do anyway, but most of all she wondered what those dark figures on the hillside had been doing and why the shoulders of her friend had dropped as if with shame. Most of all, this dragged upon her soul and kept her from fleetness. For how must the feet drag when the heart is weighted down!

  She came at last into the highway and heard by the tolling of the clock on a distant barn that it was two o’clock. It gave her a strange sense of detachment from the world to be thus adrift at that dark, prowling time of the night.

  The road was empty either way. Not even a light of a distant car was in sight. If she could only hope to find a place of shelter before another came. Surely it could not be much longer so empty on the highway. Someone would be going by. Someone would see her. They would think it strange. They would think ill of her if they saw her. There was no hope for help from any passing car. She would not dare accept it if it were offered.

  Ahead she saw a strip of woods. Her brain began to function. That would be the grove just before you came to old Julia Hartshorn’s house, and Julia Hartshorn lived just outside of Heatherdell. Heatherdell was a little town, and she knew many of the people. She would not be lonely there. But where could she go? She must not be seen out at that time of night by anyone she knew unless she came to it and appealed for help. That would mean that she would have to tell the circumstances of her being out from home in t
he blackness of night. That would mean criticism for Eugene and Nannette, no matter how gently she might tell her tale nor how much she took the blame upon herself. And that would have hurt Aunt Mary. For Aunt Mary’s sake, she must not let any talk go around. Aunt Mary knew that Nannette was jealous of her and that Eugene was sometimes hard on her, but Aunt Mary loved her son, even though she knew his faults, and Joyce would never willingly make any gossip that would reflect upon the family. Eugene was right. He knew Joyce’s conscience. It was functioning true to type even now in her terror and perplexity.

  If only she had not gone to that cemetery! If only she had not turned aside and allowed herself to give up and cry upon Aunt Mary’s grave and lose all that time. She might have been far away now, in a safe, quiet room somewhere that she had hired for the night. There would have been places where she could have found a room for very little. She had some money—she didn’t remember how much—with her. It didn’t matter. There were a few dollars. Perhaps, too, she had put that gold piece in her handbag; she wasn’t sure of that. The day had been so long and hard; so many things had been within its hours. She could not recall what she had picked up to carry with her that morning. She was too weary to care.

  But she couldn’t bear to go away without bidding good-bye to the spot where Aunt Mary and her mother lay, and perhaps, too, she had felt she could better think what to do there in the quiet with the two graves.

  Well, there was no use in excusing herself. She had gone. She shuddered at the horror of the last hour, and then that burden again to find out it was that one—and to wonder. What had he been doing? Was it then true, all the whispers that had come to her ears of his life?

  Around the bend ahead dashed a light. A car was coming at last. She remembered he had said he would come after her. She glanced back, but it was all darkness. Even if he did come, would she want to meet him? Could she explain her presence out at night? He was now an almost stranger. He knew naught of her life. And perhaps it would be better if she did not know his.

  She glanced fearfully ahead. The light was growing brighter, was almost blinding. She stepped out of its range and crept among some bushes till the glare and the swift passing car were gone, and watched the little red taillight blink and disappear. Then, keeping quite close to the bank, she slid along, fearful of another car so near to the bend of the road. It might come upon her unaware, and if she were in the glare, she would naturally be noticed by the driver. She trembled at the very thought and hurried along, limbs sometimes stumbling and almost falling in the tall grass.

  But presently she came in sight of Julia Hartshorn’s cottage, a little quiet brown affair with gingerbread fretwork on its porches and moss on its roof, set far back from the street in a grove of maples, like a tiny island off the mainland of the larger grove nearby.

  A picket fence with scaling ancient paint and a gate with a chain and weight guarded the quiet haven, and the fitful moonlight quavered out and showed the dim outline of a hammock slung between the maples close to the west porch. Joyce remembered a long, beautiful afternoon when she had lain in that hammock and read a book while Aunt Mary sat on the porch with Julia Hartshorn and sewed. How long ago and how beautiful that seemed. How like heaven in contrast with what she had been going through lately! Yes, here was a haven. She might go and knock at the door, and Julia’s nightcapped old head would appear at the window above. She had only to tell who it was and that she was in trouble, and the door would be open wide for her. Neither would Julia Hartshorn ever tell.

  But Julia Hartshorn was old, and she had a sharp-tongued niece who had come to live with her and to go to school. It would never do. She must not venture that. That school in Heatherdell was too near to the school in Meadow Brook, and too much gossip went back and forth. No, she must keep to her lonely way and go on. But there was no reason why she might not slip into that gate for a little while and lie in that hammock till daylight began to come. She could steal in so quietly no one would ever know and get out again before the household was awake.

  Softly she lifted the latch of the old gate, lifting the gate as she swung it cautiously open lest it creak, and let herself in, closing it noiselessly behind her. Still as a creature of the woods, she stole up the grass and tiptoed across the walk to the hammock, sliding gently into it and slowly relaxing her tense muscles. It seemed as though she had suddenly been tossed up by a terrible and angry sea where her very soul had been racked from her body and laid upon a quiet stretch of sand, so wonderful it was to lie and rest.

  She scarcely knew when her thoughts relaxed from their intense strain and rested with her body or when the night blurred into sleep and took her trouble all away. She only realized as she was drifting off that her soul was crying, “Oh, God! Forgive me if I’ve done wrong. Take care of me, and show me what to do! For Jesus’ sake—take care of me—show me.”

  Was that a dream or footsteps stealthily along the road, pausing at the gate, noiseless footsteps like those in the cemetery? He was coming back—but he must not. Oh, what was he doing out there in the dark? Something that he was ashamed of? He had dropped and had not answered! “Oh, God, show him!” Was there someone at the gate? Or was it fancy? Ah—now they seemed to be going on. How sweet the breeze on her forehead—like the breeze from the open kitchen door. “Oh, God, save him! Help me! Show me what to do.”

  Chapter 7

  The morning dawned with a luminous pink in the east and a sudden twitter of birds. April, and four o’clock in the morning; asleep in a hammock under a tree. What could be more perfect?

  Joyce, half conscious of the wonder all around her, had come to life with the first bird, and a sense of peace upon her. The daylight was coming, and God had kept her. She might go on her way now and be undisturbed. Then a stab of pain at the memory of the night before brought her further awake. A low-flying bird almost brushed her cheek with its wing, and the petals of the apple blossoms drifted down in her face. Such exquisite perfume, such melody of many throats—would it be something like this when one wakened in heaven and heard the voices of the angel songs?

  Beyond her sheltering tree, the dim outlines of the old house loomed gently in the gray morning, such peace and safety all around. How good to be resting here.

  But Julia Hartshorn’s niece had picked out this special morning to get up early and do some housecleaning before going to school, and just as Joyce was allowing herself to drift off again into drowsiness, Jane Hartshorn’s alarm clock set up such a clang into the melody of the morning that Joyce came to herself in terror and sat up looking fearfully toward the house. Not for anything would she have them discover her there. She must get up and get out before the light. She must hasten now, for someone was evidently going to arise at once, and it was not safe to remain another second.

  Hastily she felt for her handbag, realized that she had only one book instead of two, groped in the darkness for her hat, which had fallen to the ground, and slid softly out of the hammock.

  A glance toward the house showed a light in one of the upper windows, and in a panic she stole breathlessly from bush to bush and from shadow to shadow till she reached the gate and the high road. Then a new fear overtook her. She would run the risk of meeting early milk carts, perhaps stray tramps if she walked along through the village. Someone might recognize her. It would not do at this early hour in the morning. Where could she hide until a respectable hour for a young woman to be out alone? How could she explain her presence there? For she was not one of the modern girls who go where they please and let people think what they like. She had been taught that there was a certain consideration for one’s reputation that was right and perfectly consistent with independence. One of the precepts that Aunt Mary had ingrained into her nature had been that good old Bible verse, “Let not then your good be evil spoken of,” and she had grown up with a sane and wholesome idea of values that helped immensely when she came to a crisis anywhere.

  She hurried down the road that would presently merge into the vi
llage street, as noiselessly as possible, and cast about for a possible retreat. Then she came to a low rail fence skirting a pasture. The breath of the cows came sweetly in the gray dawn, mingled with the smell of earth and growing things. She could look across a wide expanse to wooded hills several miles away. There seemed to be no buildings to suggest the presence of humans, and cows were safe friends—at least most of them. She could keep close to the fence and climb if there happened to be a bull in the lot. With a hasty glance backward and each way, she climbed the fence and dropped into the pasture, skirting along its edge and down away from the street. It was still too dark for her to be visible from the road, and she would surely find somewhere to sit down and wait until a respectable hour.

  She made her way safely through two pastures, stumbling now and then over the clumps of violets or little hillocks of grass, but the meadow was for the most part smooth with the cropping of the cows, and it was growing lighter all the time.

  In the second pasture, the ground dipped till it came to a little rivulet tinkling along over bright pebbles and giving an absurdly miniature reflection of the dawn in pink and gold as it ran; and here, under a great old chestnut tree, she dropped down and looked around her.

  Off to the right, perhaps half a mile away, there was a red barn and a house beyond it with smoke coming from the chimney. Farther away a village church spire rose among the trees. It was all so quiet and peaceful with the first tinge of red light from the sunrise putting a halo upon everything. Joyce never remembered having been out at this hour before all alone with the spring. The fear of the night before had fled, and it was as if she were sitting safe watching God make a new day. She wondered as the miracle of the sun began to appear in a great ruby light what this day would bring forth for her. It hardly seemed real to her yet, what she had passed through since she left home. The experience in the cemetery was like an awful dream. She shuddered to think of it. Was it because an old friend had fallen from a high pedestal where she had placed him many years ago? Was it because a nameless fear hovered around her and she could not bear to search out in her mind what he might have been doing? Whatever it was, she realized that she must put it away until she had time and privacy. There were more important things to decide now, and she must keep her poise and plan her day. It would soon be light enough for her to go upon her way, and she must know where she was going and what she should try to do.