Not Under the Law

by Grace Livingston Hill

  It must have been an hour they sat thus listening to the reading, the boy and the fishing rod not moving, the little girl watching with fascinated, dreamy eyes as if she were looking at a picture that might come alive any minute, and then suddenly something happened. The rod bent quickly down with a jerk, the boy’s arm went out with a quick, involuntary motion, and a fish swept up from below somewhere in a great circle and landed floundering on the grassy bank.

  Joyce sat up quickly with round eyes, watching the boy’s maneuvers with the fish, and Aunt Mary stopped reading and looked on with interest, too. The boy looked up at last, shamefaced and flushed. “Aw, gee!” he said. “I didn’t go to interrupt you. That fish just got on my hook, an’ I pulled it before I thought. That’s a crackerjack story you’re reading.”

  “Why, I’m glad to be interrupted by such an interesting happening,” Aunt Mary answered him. “What a beautiful fish! What kind is it?”

  “That’s a trout. You don’t find many of ’em anymore. They been all fished out. Want it? I c’n find some more when I want ’em.”

  “Oh, thank you, I couldn’t take your fish,” said Aunt Mary with a smile, “but I’ve enjoyed seeing you catch it. You’d better take it home to your mother.”

  The boy’s head bowed a little lower, and he said in a low, gruff voice. “Haven’t got any mother. She’s dead. They don’t want to bother with fish at home. D’you like me to cook it for you? They’re awful good cooked outdoors like this right on the coals.”

  He began to gather sticks and twigs together and placed them in a little pile.

  “Well, that certainly would be wonderful,” said Aunt Mary, smiling. “Then you can take lunch with us. We always bring along enough for a guest—”

  The boy booked up wistfully and grinned, and then was off for more sticks.

  In a little clearing, he built a fire while the little girl watched him, and put his fish to cook, and then they spread out the lunch on a big white cloth on a rock the boy showed them, and they had a great laugh over the bugs and ants that kept coming to dinner with them.

  The boy ate lunch with them, carving his fish proudly with a big jackknife and serving the biggest portions to his guests, saying he didn’t care for fish anyhow; he could get it whenever he wanted it. But he ate the sandwiches and little pies and cakes hungrily, and watched the little girl with shy, furtive glances.

  Afterward he washed the dishes for them in the brook and packed them back in the basket, then curled down at Aunt Mary’s feet while she went on reading.

  Oh, the memory of that long, beautiful afternoon among the pines, with the sun sifting down through the leaves and the taller trees waving way up, almost touching the sky it seemed, and the drone of bees somewhere, the distant whetting of a scythe—how it all came back as she thought it over!

  And then the book was finished, and they sat back, sorry it was done, dreamy with the loveliness of the story in which they had been absorbed.

  “That’s a crackerjack tale,” declared the boy. “Gee, I’d like to have that dog. My dog died,” he ended sadly. “Got run over by a truck.”

  They talked a little about the dog, and the boy got out a dirty little snapshot of himself with the dog in his arms when it was only a little puppy, and the little girl smiled and said it was a darling.

  Then somehow Aunt Mary led them around to talk of other things, and how still it was in the woods, and how beautiful, and how God must love it there. The boy’s face grew sober and wistful, and wonder came into his eyes with a kind of softness. Aunt Mary got out her little Testament and read the story of the healing of the man who was born blind, in the ninth chapter of John. How they thrilled to the story all the way through, as the different actors came and went, the blind man himself, his wondering neighbors, the scornful Jews, the cowardly parents, Jesus, who came to find him after they had all left him, even down to the words that Jesus spoke to the faultfinding Jews: “If ye were blind, ye should have no sin: but now ye say, We see; therefore your sin remaineth.” How strange that those words should sound, even after these years, with the murmuring of the pines and the holy stillness afterward, while the shadows grew long and violet within the sanctuary of trees where they sat, and dusk was all around them. The boy’s lashes drooped thoughtfully, and his whole face took on a faraway look. Then Aunt Mary’s voice came again softly, praying, “Dear Jesus, we know You are here today just as then. Help us for Christ’s sake to have our eyes open to sin so that we shall always know when we are not pleasing Thee. Amen.”

  They had gone out together silently through the quiet aisles with only the tall singing of the pines and the distant melody of thrushes in their evening song above them. The boy had gathered up the basket and his fishing rod, and helped them over the fence with a kind of reverence upon him.

  They had walked down the road to the village with that beautiful intimacy still upon them, like friends who had seen a vision together and would never forget. The boy had gone all the way to their door, saying very little, but with an uplifted look on his face. Aunt Mary had asked him to come and see them sometime, and he had suddenly grown shy and silent, dropped his eyes, and set his young shoulders as if he had come to a hard spot. “Well, g’bye!” he said gruffly and, turning, darted out the gate and down the street, flashing them a wonderful smile as he went. He had become suddenly all boy again.

  He had come again several times with gifts—a splendid plant of squawberry vine with bright red berries hanging from it, a great sheaf of crimson leaves and sumac berries, a handkerchief full of ripe chestnuts.

  When winter came again, they sometimes found their paths shoveled around the house very early in the morning and caught a glimpse of a red sweater and gray cap going down the street as they arose.

  There had been several times at school when Joyce felt his protection against the larger boys who snowballed most unmercifully.

  Once he drew her on her sled through a drifted place. And once she found a rose upon her desk and, looking up, saw his eyes upon her suddenly averted and knew he had put it there. But he never came again into their intimate family circle as he had done that wonderful day in the woods. His family moved to another part of the town, and she seldom saw him. They always spoke when they met, and something would flash from eye to eye that was different from an ordinary acquaintance. They could not forget that day and that holy cathedral of the woods where they had companioned so richly together.

  She had not seen him often through the years, but he had come to Aunt Mary’s funeral and, at the cemetery, stood close to the open grave looking down with bared head as if he loved the one who was being laid to rest. A handsome fellow with a distinguished look about him, and that wonderful wistfulness in his eyes that had not lost the child look and could still flash a smile that lit the hearts of those who saw it.

  That! And then to see him there in the dark—at a gruesome task of some sort, and to have seen his eyes as she asked him what he had been doing!

  She had not spoken to him in years. Their sole communication had been through smiles till she asked him that question wrung from her lips at cost of pain. Somehow her words seemed to strike a blow at the dear past and shatter something that had been most precious.

  And now she had gone over it again in the watches of the night, and the pain was still there. He had somehow gone wrong. She had to admit that to her loyal heart. Perhaps he had been wrong all the time, a bad, wild boy. She had sometimes heard hints of that floating around the village but had not believed it. She had clung to that day when they had read Under the Lilacs together and then heard the story of the blind man and gone out together again into life with the blessing of Jesus resting upon them. She could not bear to think that the boy who had been so gentle and kind, so interested and happy in that sweet, simple place, could have been bad all the time and only dropped out of his regular life for the day just out of curiosity. He must be right and true somehow. And if he had been doing wrong, he must be sorry perhaps, for he ha
d looked ashamed. She could not get away from that. She covered her face with her hands to pray and found there were tears upon her cheeks, and then she prayed with all her heart, “Oh, Jesus, go and find him and make him understand. Open his eyes that he may see and sin no more.”

  About that time, a man under cover of the darkness came down the road from the Meadow Brook cemetery and stole into Julia Hartshorn’s gate and silently over the grass to the hammock under the trees. Pausing a moment to look furtively up at the dark house, he stooped and felt all over that hammock. He had passed the house that day slowly in his automobile, and he was sure he had seen the form of an object sagging in the middle. He had observed it most minutely. He was come now to find out. It might give him no clue even if he found it, but he was here.

  His hand moved carefully and came in contact with a book, yes—and something soft like cloth, a handkerchief with a faint smell of lavender drifting from it. He slipped them in his pocket and went silently away into the night on rubber-shod feet that made no sound, and after he was gone for a while, soon came another shadow, stealing as silently into the yard and up to the hammock. It is doubtful if Julia Hartshorn and her niece would have ever recovered from the fright if they had known what went on in their yard that night. But they were slumbering deeply and did not even see the tiny spot of light that flashed over the hammock, and down upon the ground, bringing out in clear relief a scrap of paper with writing across it. A hand reached for it, and again the flashlight focused for a scrutiny. “oyce Radw,” the paper read, and that was all. It was torn on all its edges and evidently was a part of a larger writing. The man searched again but could find nothing more. So he stole away as he had come, but he kept the paper safe for future reference.

  Chapter 16

  When Joyce awoke the next morning, it was with a feeling of trepidation lest she had overslept and would not be able to accomplish all that she must before twelve o’clock.

  She hurried around anxiously, folding her newspaper bed into an innocent-looking pile, putting away her things carefully for any possible scrutiny, and eating a hasty breakfast of crackers, cheese, and what was left of her bottle of milk.

  When everything was neat and trim, she took out her dress and sat down to sew, wondering if perhaps she ought not to run out and find what time it was before she started to work. But fortunately the town clock settled the matter by chiming out nine o’clock. Three hours before she must be at Mrs. Powers’s! Well, there was only the collar and cuffs to sew on, the skirt to hem, and the pockets to make. She could get along without pockets if necessary, but she really needed them. If only the collar would fit and not have to be made over again or cut down or anything.

  She put in the hem swiftly. That was plain sailing, as it was carefully pinned. Then she put on the cuffs and tacked them in place, and donned the gown. Yes, the collar fit nicely. With a relieved mind, she took it off again and faced on the collar. While she was doing so, the clock struck ten. If she hurried, there would be time to make the pockets. It was half past before she finished the collar and tacked on the casing. Somehow her fingers seemed terribly slow. She cut two strips from the organdy, bound them with blue, and sewed them at the top of two patch pockets. It was striking eleven as she pinned the pockets in place and began to sew them on with strong, firm little stitches, but ten minutes would see it finished. She drew a long breath and began to think of what was before her. Mrs. Powers had sounded pleasant but condescending. Well, one could keep still and obey orders, and after all, condescension didn’t hurt anything but one’s pride. What was pride? She could stand almost anything for just once.

  She must stop at the store on her way and get a clean gingham apron. She ought to have a white one for table waiting also. If there was anything cheap enough, she would get it. If there was only another two hours, she could easily make one. But there wasn’t. Finishing, she broke off her thread and laid aside her thimble and scissors happily. Well, the dress was done anyway.

  She wasted little time in putting on the new garment and smoothing her hair, feeling quite neat and trim as she locked her door and hurried down the street. Mrs. Bryant eyed her approvingly from her kitchen window.

  “She certainly is a pretty little thing,” she said to herself. “I wish I had a daughter like that. It’s going to be a real comfort having her right near this winter when Jim is away. I’m glad we let her have the lot.”

  Joyce brought her other gingham apron and found a tiny white one, coarse but neat, for fifty cents and, with her two aprons, presented herself at Mrs. Powers’s door at exactly twelve o’clock.

  Mrs. Powers herself opened the door, her hair in crimpers, herself attired in a somewhat soiled pink silk robe.

  “I forgot to mention that you might come to the side door,” she said loftily, “but it doesn’t matter this time.”

  Joyce paused on the threshold and surveyed her silently. She had never met anything quite like this nor dreamed that people who served others had to endure it. She was minded to flee at once, till she remembered that she had promised to get the dinner and that it was probably too late for the woman to get anyone else now. She must be a lady, even if her employer was not.

  Before she could speak, however, Mrs. Powers entered upon her introduction to the work.

  “You don’t object to washing dishes, I hope. The lunch and breakfast dishes will have to be cleared away before you can do much. Here’s the menu for tonight; I’ve written it out so there won’t be any mistake. I never like to have to give direction twice. Fruit cup. You’ll find the things in the storeroom, oranges, grapefruit, some white grapes skinned and seeded—I like plenty of grapes in it—and there’s a can of pineapple. Then we’ll have a clear soup. Do you know how to make soup? I’m sure I don’t know what you’ll make it out of. You can look around and see. Perhaps there’s some stock. Then, for the meat course, we’ll have chops and creamed potatoes and peas. There’s lettuce in the garden and tomatoes in the refrigerator. You make mayonnaise, do you? Mrs. Bryant spoke of that, I think. Well, that fixes the salad all right. Then ice cream and cake and coffee. I’ve ordered the ice cream, of course, but I’ll need two kinds of cake. I always like to have two kinds. That’s all, I believe. Now, I’m going up to lie down. I really must or I’ll look like a rag, but I shall expect you to have the dining room and kitchen cleaned, the peas shelled, and the mayonnaise on the ice by the time I come down. Then I shall feel easy. You’ll need to scald and skin the tomatoes, too, and get at your cake as soon as possible. It’ll need to get cold before icing. Now, do you think you understand it all?”

  Joyce looked at her with frank amusement as she rolled out the sentences, tolling off the tasks as if they were trifles and expecting, actually expecting, all that work to be done. In spite of her, a fresh young laugh rang out as if it were all a joke. The lady eyed her curiously, uneasily. What kind of a young working person was this anyway who laughed at her tasks and came to the front door for admission?

  “I want dinner promptly at seven,” she said haughtily. “Do you feel sure you will remember all I have told you?”

  “I’ll do my best to accomplish as much as possible, Mrs. Powers,” said Joyce, remembering the ten dollars and sobering down. “There isn’t any too much time, I guess.”

  Joyce undid her bundle and enveloped herself in her clean gingham apron as she spoke. “Now, if you’ll show me where to find your materials.”

  “Yes,” sighed the lady comfortably, leading the way to the kitchen. “I hope you’ll let me know right away if there’s anything else you need, because I hate to be disturbed when I’m taking a nap.”

  She trailed away from the scene before Joyce realized the whole situation, or it is doubtful she might not have fled even yet.

  The kitchen was stacked with soiled dishes in every available spot, and soiled dish towels and grocery bags huddled together between piles of plates and pans and potato peelings. It was evident that not only the breakfast and lunch dishes were unwashed but a
lso the dinner dishes of the night before, and possibly some from lunch of the day before. It was a wreck of a kitchen and no mistake. Joyce stood still in her pretty new blue dress in the midst of it all, appalled at what was expected of her. It seemed to her that no two girls could accomplish all that had been given her to do before seven o’clock. The cooking alone was enough to keep her on the jump, without all the cleaning. She was minded to get at the preparation for dinner first and leave the clearing up to take care of itself when the lady came down again, only that absolutely nothing could be done until there was a clean place in which to work.

  Joyce had been in hard places before, with a meal ahead to get for company in a short time, and had rather enjoyed the sharpening of her wits to win the game and get it done in time. But never had she had such a kitchen as this to deal with. At first glance her soul revolted from having to touch it. The floor was grimy and messy with things spilled on it. Numerous dishes standing under the sink out of the way with fragments of food burned hard to them showed discouraging impossibilities ahead. The sink was filthy with grease and the dishpan filled with greasy water. It was all simply unspeakable. She scarcely knew where to begin.