Not Under the Law

by Grace Livingston Hill

  The minister’s voice broke again upon her troubled spirit. “No man’s death can do away with my guilt. No amount of shed blood can cleanse me from sin. I’ve got to do that myself. As Jesus made the man go to the river and wash the clay away, so you and I must wash away our own sins in the sweat of our brow, working for Him. We must feed the hungry, clothe the naked, be kind one to another, uplift the fallen, uplift and broaden humanity, put away sin from our lives, and in its place put deeds of kindness such as Jesus did. That life and that alone can atone for a sinful past. Let us pray.”

  During the prayer that followed, tears came into the eyes of the wounded girl, but a choir of the angelic host seemed somewhere far away to be chanting, and the words they spoke were clear and distinct. “The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.

  “He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

  “All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.”

  They rang in her heart with triumph as she lifted her head for the closing song, whose words she could not see because of the tears in her eyes, and when it was over and the benediction was spoken, she turned, humiliated and sad, to go out of the house of God. Just behind her came a clear, languid voice, drawling, “Yes, wasn’t it a sweet sermon? Perfectly lovely. I just love to hear Dr. Darling preach; he is so refined, and he makes one feel so good….”

  And out in the sunshine, the young girl walked back to her little house stricken, almost sick, with the experience of the morning. This was her first experience of modernism in a Christian church. Summer visitors in Meadow Brook had complained that the minister there was old-fashioned, and they really ought to have a young man who would be broad in his views and educate the young people in up-to-date religion. But the people of Meadow Brook loved Dr. Ballantine and his wife and did not want to see them leave. He had been there a long time, and the elders in the church all thought as he did, so until some of the younger generation who had not been taught by him in the scriptures grew up, he was not likely to be ousted.

  Joyce had read a little about the state of things in the religious world, but she had thought of modernism as one thinks of leprosy or the starving Russians, as something far, far away and awful, to prevent which, one ought to give money and send missionaries, but which one was never likely to meet with in daily life. Now, suddenly brought face-to-face with it, she was shaken to her soul.

  Not that the sermon of the morning had given her any doubts. It could not have done that even if it had been strong in arguments and logic, and not weak, garbled statements of half facts she had known all her life, for Joyce was a Christian, rooted and grounded in the Word, and had lived too many years in sweet communion with her Savior to have been shaken even a little in her sweet faith. No, it had made her angry, trembling, impotently angry. She felt as if she could not stand it that words like those should have been preached in a Christian pulpit under the name of an orthodox faith and no one put in a protest. She longed to be a man that she might do something about it, a prophet that she might cry out, a wise leader that she might come to the people and tell them how the curse of God would be upon them if they listened to words like those—how their souls would be lost!

  She sat down on her wooden box in her small home, going over it all with sorrowing heart. She did not even take off her hat, so absorbed and excited she was. She went over the Bible verses that she had learned when a child, and her heart began to swell and triumph over the wonder and the joy of the salvation that was hers.

  “He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.

  “For by the works of the law shall no flesh be justified.

  “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.

  “Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began.”

  How her heart thrilled with the words as she said them over, and how she rejoiced that she had been taught in the Word. Sunday after Sunday during her little girlhood it had been the regular afternoon employment for her and Aunt Mary to learn a chapter in the Bible or a group of verses that Aunt Mary had selected during the week on some special topic. Sometimes she had done the selecting herself and had taken such joy in finding out a group of verses on a certain topic. Now they came flocking from her fine memory like a troop of strong angels sent to protect her.

  “Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the Holy Ghost; which he shed on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Saviour.”

  How she wished she had her Bible that she might spend the afternoon hunting out other verses! What else was there about the blood? Ah!

  “Without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins!

  “For this is my blood of the new testament, which is shed for many.

  “God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by his blood, we shall be saved from wrath through him.

  “For if the blood of bulls and of goats, and the ashes of an heifer sprinkling the unclean, sanctified to the purifying of the flesh: How much more shall the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered himself without spot to God, purge your conscience from dead works to serve the living God?”

  She could remember the very afternoon when she learned that, curled up on the foot of Aunt Mary’s bed while she took a little nap, in the days when Aunt Mary was just beginning to be frail and had to rest more than usual. And how proud she had been to think she had found this wonderful verse all by herself. And now she had an inexpressible longing to take that Bible verse to the minister who had preached that strange dead sermon that morning and show him. Perhaps he didn’t know. Perhaps he never had heard. But of course he must. And he was one of those men they called modernists, who were taking the heart and life out of the faith of today, who were helping to fulfill the prophecies about the latter days, when people would prefer teachers with strange doctrines.

  She was half frightened at the thought. It seemed to her that she must turn and flee back into the safe harbor of Meadow Brook, where dear old Dr. Ballantine preached about the cross of Christ every Sunday, and everybody knew and believed the old doctrines. It seemed as if perhaps she had run away into danger and horror, and the tempter might be preparing a snare for her feet.

  She did not feel safe until she had dropped upon her knees and asked for guidance and strength to keep true to Christ, even though she might have to pass through a portion of the world where there was no faith.

  As she rose from her knees, it occurred to her that Elijah the prophet had once got into some such a panic and thought he was the only loyal prophet left, and the Lord had told him he had yet seven thousand other prophets who would not bow the knee to Baal. There were very likely many Christians in this town, and by and by she would go out and find them.

  So she got up cheerfully and went about getting some dinner. She hadn’t a great appetite, for she had worn herself out for several days past, and when she had eaten, she lay down on the heap of papers and fell asleep. When she awoke, she realized that the paper bed was getting pretty hard, and she really must do something about it tomorrow; one could not sleep on newspapers indefinitely. She shook the papers out and crumpled them anew until they had some spring in them again, and smoothed it nicely for when she should come back that night, and then, with a couple of crackers and some cheese folded neatly in a bit of wrapping paper and tucked in her pocket, she started out.

  Her first object was t
o find a church. She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to tell whether it was the right kind of a church from the outside or not, without listening to another sermon, but she prayed in her heart as she went that somehow she might drop into a place where she would find help and comfort to her soul, and might, if possible, find it without having to listen to more words such as she had heard that morning. It seemed to her that it was disloyal to her Lord even to listen to such things.

  The day was wonderful, and the spring air was sweet with the breath of flowers. As she walked down the pleasant streets, the blueness of the sky and the greenness of the grass made a kind of ecstasy for her spirit. The little lazy clouds floating, the flight of a bird across the blue, and the redness of the maple buds on the trees all gave her joy. There were tulips in some of the yards she passed, red and yellow, pink and white; and hyacinths made delicate the air, and she thought what a wonderful God to make so many beautiful, intricate flowers, each with a different perfume. Little blue crocuses were sticking up their gallant buds from lawns here and there, quaint processions of blue and white and yellow. The town was in its Sunday best, and everything was promising a gorgeous summer. One could not help being glad on such a day even though one were all alone.

  A church steeple loomed ahead, and Joyce quickened her step. It was a plainer church than the one she had attended in the morning, and she thought as she approached perhaps here she would find a company of live Christians who were awake to what was being preached in the other church and would have the good old gospel. Her eyes eagerly sought the bulletin board posted up just outside the door. The hours of service were there, the usual hours, but everything else was completely covered by a large card announcing the Brotherhood Minstrel Show to be held on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings of that week, tickets fifty cents a night.

  Joyce turned away disappointed. The minstrel show might be all right. They had entertainments at home sometimes, of course, for the young people, but people who were really alive to the terrible things that were being preached in another church of their own town would surely be interested in something besides minstrel shows. Of course they might be, and just not have put it on the outside of the church, but she didn’t somehow feel that here was her place of worship.

  She walked on for at least a mile, passing, as she did so, out of one suburb into another. She was interested in the pretty little bungalows she passed, and in the finer houses when she turned to another street, but she was looking for churches. Presently she came to another, a smart yellow brick affair out on the street with the doors open and a brisk air of business around the place. Groups of young people were wending their way toward it and going in the door. A large blackboard outside the entrance announced the various activities of the week. Monday evening there was a rehearsal for the Christian Endeavor pageant, and all costumes were to be brought. Tuesday evening Class A was holding a bazaar and supper for the benefit of the new basketball team. Wednesday evening there was to be a lecture by a professor from a famous university entitled “Why I Know the World Is Growing Better.” Thursday there was a choir rehearsal and a meeting of the Ladies’ Aid to arrange to cooperate with the Red Cross for the annual fair, Friday there was a church social, and Saturday there was a picnic in one of the amusement parks with a moonlight ride home in automobiles. Joyce read it carefully through, searching in vain for a word that would show the faith of these people of great activities, but found nothing, not even a prayer meeting. Probably that lecture was in place of one. Well, it might be all right, but she had been taught that the world wasn’t growing better and never would till Christ came to make things over. Lifting her eyes above the blackboard, she saw that the church bulletin announced the minister’s topic for that night: “The Political Situation Today.” She turned away with a sigh. Well, it might be all right, but it promised nothing from the outside. She walked on, turning down another street.

  Two hours she walked, keeping the general direction of her home in mind so that she would not get lost. She found several little churches, all more or less attractive in a way, but none of them giving any clue to what was preached inside, and at last, with a heavy heart and weary feet, she turned her steps homeward, coming back by a different street.

  It was when she was within four or five blocks of where she judged her little house must be that she came upon another church built of rough stone, rugged and substantial, but beautiful in its simple lines. The door was open, and a burst of song from young voices greeted her:

  What can wash away my sin?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

  What can make me whole again?

  Nothing but the blood of Jesus.

  Joyce turned in at the door as a bird flies home to its nest.

  Chapter 19

  The man called Teneyke had decided to give his confidence to Cottar. He had reached the limit of his detective powers and needed aid. All research in the way of telephone books and directories of the region around Meadow Brook had failed to bring forth anyone whose name fit the letters of the paper he treasured carefully, wrapped in clean tissue paper and further enshrined in a dirty envelope, in his inside pocket.

  He sought Cottar early in the evening in his own home, a dull little clapboard house with a side gate and a brick walk. The front door was always locked, and one entered by the kitchen door at the side into a room lighted by a kerosene lamp on a little high shelf and misty with the smoke of Cottar’s pipe. Cottar’s old wife was deaf and went puttering round with a little shoulder shawl across her neck and took no notice of anybody. When Teneyke came in, Cottar signed to her, and she lit a candle and went up a shallow stairway into the hall. One could hear her shuffling tread overhead. The two men waited till the boards overhead stopped creaking. Then Cottar lifted his bushy eyebrows and let his beady, wise little eyes peer out speculatively.

  “Wal, Tyke?”

  “All safe?”

  “All safe.”

  Tyke got out the paper and unwrapped it. Cottar put on his spectacles. Together they silently studied the writing. “oyce Radw.” It seemed to mean nothing to Cottar at first. But Tyke produced a page filched from a public telephone book. There were three Rs that might have been possible, Radwan, Radwanski, and Radwell. The shrewd Cottar decided that the first two were too foreign. The handwriting looked plain and well formed, not as he thought a foreigner would write. Radwell might be the name. He could think of no other. The first name they decided must be Boyce, although that was a boy’s name and not a girl’s, and would, if correct, throw them off the track altogether. Perhaps it was a middle name. So they speculated.

  Cottar made a careful, painstaking copy of the writing and folded it away in his grimy pocket for further use.

  “Well, I don’t figger it out yet, but there’s ways. If she’s a Meadow Brook dame, we’ll find her out. Just keep yer mouth shet an’ yer eyes open, an’ most things come out. Gimme time.”

  A tap sounded on the door, and Bill entered. “Man, I had a hard time findin’ ye!” he said, casting a furtive glance around with his restless, bloodshot eyes. “Hey there, Tyke, I thought you got pinched!”

  “What, me! Think again, Bill. Takes a slicker guy’n that cop to lay hands on me. I double-crossed him, I did. Seen Taney?”

  “Yep. Got him hid in the hazels down on the Point. Gonta watch all night. Taney’s all right fer that. He’s on the job. Nothin’ won’t get by him. We figger this would be the night fer another lot to land there if they had any sorta ‘greement about it. There ain’t no other spot this side o’ the lights, an’ he’s bound to connect along this coast somewheres. He ain’t goin’ fur away, you needn’t think. He’s got his good buyers all around this part. No, sir, he thinks he’s got us buffaloed all right with that there two hundred bucks, an’ now he’s figgerin’ to work it alone, the young devil!”

  “Been to the cem’tery, Bill?”

  “Yep. Went this a.m. ‘fore dawn. Jest light ‘nough t’see t’spade. Opened her all up.
Nothin’ there but a bed of broken glass. Slick job! Cleaned the whole thing out. Must think we’re takin’ nourishment out of a bottle yet if we can’t see through that. Say, boys, whaddaya say we take a little trip through the old buryin’ ground up by the state road? He’s bound to get another location fer his business, an’ that’s good an’ lonely. I found out he’s got a sister an’ she’s got some kids. Be a good idee to buddy up to ’em, Tyke. You’re good at that business. They live down to Meadow Brook on Orchard Street, third house from the corner, opposite to the garage.”

  Tyke narrowed his eyes and nodded.

  The next day Tyke happened along Orchard Street as Lib Knox was starting to school.

  “Yer uncle at home?”

  She eyed him shrewdly.

  “Whaddaya wanta know for?” she demanded, cold-eyed.

  “Just wantta see him on a message.”

  “Well, he ain’t in,” she said loftily. “You better leave the message.”

  She started down the street with her armful of books, and Dorothea, approaching from the corner, joined her.

  Tyke followed them and lounged along beside them.

  “Say, kid,” he said, bringing out the greasy envelope, “donno but I will. I c’n confide in you. I see you’re a pretty good sort o’ kid. Looka here!”

  But Lib Knox was not the easily flattered sort. She eyed him with suspicion and looked coldly at the bit of paper he held out to her. When she caught sight of the writing, her eyes narrowed, and she gave him a quick, veiled glance beneath their fringes. Dorothea, behind her, as ever curious, stretched her neck to see the writing also.

  “Know whose name that is?” The man asked the question with alluring mystery in his tone, as if he knew the name himself and had some wonderful information to impart concerning it. But Lib was a smart girl.