Not Under the Law

  © 2012 by Grace Livingston Hill

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-654-7

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-560-1

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-559-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  1920s Northeastern United States

  The kitchen door stood open wide, and the breath from the meadow blew freshly across Joyce Radway’s hot cheeks and forehead as she passed hurriedly back and forth from the kitchen stove to the dining room table preparing the evening meal.

  It had been a long, hard day, and she was very tired. The tears seemed to have been scorching her eyelids since early morning, and because her spirit would not let them out, they seemed to have been flowing back into her heart till its beating was almost stopped by the deluge. Somehow it had been the hardest day in all the two weeks since her aunt died; the culmination of all the hard times since Aunt Mary had been taken sick and her son, Eugene Massey, brought his wife and two children home to live.

  To begin with, at the breakfast table Eugene had snarled at Joyce for keeping her light burning so long the night before. He told her he couldn’t afford to pay electric bills for her to sit up and read novels. This was most unjust since he knew that Joyce never had any novels to read, but that she was studying for an examination that would finish her last year of normal schoolwork and fit her for a teacher. But then her cousin was seldom just. He took great delight in tormenting her. Sometimes it seemed incredible that he could possibly be Aunt Mary’s son, he was so utterly unlike her in every way. But he resembled markedly the framed picture of his father, Hiram Massey, which hung in the parlor, whom Joyce could but dimly remember as an uncle who never smiled at her.

  She had controlled the tears then that sprang to her eyes and tried to answer in a steady voice. “I’m sorry, Gene. I was studying; I wasn’t reading a novel. You know last night was the last chance I had to study. The examination is today. Maybe when I get a school, I’ll be able to pay those electric light bills and some other things, too.”

  “Bosh!” said Eugene discourteously. “You’ll pay them a big lot, won’t you? That’s all rubbish, your trying to get a school, after a whole year out of school yourself. Much chance you’ll stand! And you may as well understand right now that I’m not going to undertake the expense of you lying around here idling and pretending to go to school for another whole year, so you better begin to make other plans.”

  Joyce swallowed hard and tried to smile. “Well,” she said pleasantly, “wait till after the examinations. I may pass, and then there won’t be any more trouble about it. The mathematics test is this morning. If I pass that, I’m not in the least afraid of the rest. It is all clear sailing.”

  “What’s that?” broke in Nannette’s voice sharply. “Are you expecting to go off this morning? Because if you are, you’ve missed your calculation. I have an appointment with the dressmaker in town this morning, and I don’t intend to miss it. She’s promised to get my new dress done by the day after tomorrow, and you’ll have to stay home and see that the children get their lunch and get back to school. Besides, it’s time the cellar was cleaned, and you’d better get right at it. I thought I heard a rat down there last night.”

  Joyce looked up, aghast. “But, Nan! You’ve known all along I must go to the schoolhouse this morning early!”

  “You needn’t ‘but, Nan’ me, young lady. You’re not in a position to say ‘must’ to anyone in this house. If Mother chose to let you act the independent lady, that was her affair, but she’s not here now, and you’re a dependent. It’s time you realized that. I say I’m going to town this morning, and you’ll have to stay at home.”

  Nannette had sailed off upstairs with the parting words, and Eugene went on reading his paper as if he had not heard the altercation. For a moment, Joyce contemplated an appeal to him, but one glance at the forbidding eyebrows over the top of the morning paper made her change her mind. There was little hope to be had from an appeal to him. He had never liked her, and she had never liked him. It dated back to the time when she caught him deceiving his mother and he dared her to tell on him. She had not told—it had not seemed a matter that made it necessary—but he hated her for knowing he was not all that his mother thought him. Besides, he was much older than she and had a bullying nature. Her clear, young eyes annoyed him. She represented conscience in the concrete, his personal part of which he had long ago throttled. He did not like to be reminded of conscience, and, too, he had always been jealous of his mother’s love for Joyce.

  Joyce glanced with troubled eyes at the clock.

  She was due at the schoolhouse at nine thirty. Gene would take the 8:19 train to town, and Nan would likely go with him.

  There would be time after they left to pack lunches for the children if she hurried. Nan didn’t like them to take their lunch, but Nan would have to stand it this time, for she meant to take that examination. She shut her lips tightly and began to remove the breakfast things from the table swiftly and quietly, leaving a plate for Junior, who would be sure to be down late.

  Her mind was struggling with the insults that had been flung at her. She had always known that she and her cousins were not compatible, but such open words of affront had never been given to her before, although the last few days since the funeral there had been glances and tones of contempt that hurt her. She had tried to be patient, hoping soon to be in a position where she would no longer be dependent upon her relatives.

  There was some wrangling between Junior and his sister before Nan and Gene left for the train, and Joyce had been obliged to leave her work to settle the dispute; and again after they were gone, she had to stop spreading the bread for the lunches and hunt for Junior’s cap and Dorothea’s arithmetic. It was a breathless time at the end, getting the lunches packed and the children off to school. She met with no opposition from them about taking their lunches, for they loved to do it, but they insisted on two slices apiece of jelly roll, which so reduced t
he amount left in the cake box that Joyce added “jelly roll” to the numerous things she must do when she got back from her examination.

  But at last she saw them run off together down the street, and she was free to rush to her room, smooth her hair, and slip into her dark blue serge dress. It remained to be seen how much time there would be left for the cellar when she got home. But whatever came, she must get those examinations done.

  When she was halfway downstairs, she ran back and picked up a few little treasured trinkets from her upper bureau drawer, sweeping them into her bag, some things that Aunt Mary had given her, a bit of real lace, some Christmas handkerchiefs, one or two pieces of jewelry—things that she prized and did not want handled. Both Dorothea and her mother seemed to consider they had a perfect right to rummage in her bureau drawers, and the day before, Joyce had come upon Nan just emerging from her closet door as if she had been looking things over there.

  It was not that the girl had anything of much value, but there were a few little things that seemed sacred to her because of their association, and she could not bear to have them handled over contemptuously by her cousin. Nan might return sooner than she expected and would be sure to come to her room to look for her. It would only anger her if she found the door locked, and anyhow the spare room key fit her lock also. There was no privacy to be had in the house since Aunt Mary’s death.

  Joyce closed and locked the house carefully, placing the key in its usual place of hiding at the top of the porch pillar under the honeysuckle vine, and hurried down the street toward the school building. She registered a deep hope that she might get home in time to do a good deal of work in the cellar before Nan arrived, but she meant to try to forget the cellar and Nan and everything till her examinations were over.

  At the schoolhouse she found to her dismay that the schedule had been changed and that three of her tests came successively that day. There would be no chance of getting through before half past three, perhaps later. Nan would be angry, but it could not be helped for this once. She would try to forget her until she was through and then hurry home. She resolved not to answer back nor get angry that night if anything mean was said to her, and perhaps things would calm down. So she put her mind on logarithms, Latin conjugations, and English poetry. These examinations offered the only way she knew to independence, and they must be taken.

  Late in the afternoon she hurried home, tired, faint, worried lest she had not answered some of the questions aright, palpitating with anxiety lest Nan had preceded her or the children were running wild.

  Breathlessly she came in sight of the house and saw the front door open wide and the doctor’s car standing in the drive. She ran up the steps in fright and apprehension.

  Nan was very much home indeed, and was furious! She met Joyce in the hall and greeted her with a tirade.

  Junior had been hurt playing baseball and had been brought home with a bandaged head and arm, weeping loudly.

  Dorothea lolled on the stairs, blandly eating the remainder of the jelly roll and eyeing her cousin with contempt and wicked exultation. She had already lit the fuse by saying that she and Junior hadn’t wanted to take their lunch, but Cousin Joyce had insisted and had given them all the jelly roll. The light in her mother’s eye had been such as to make Dorothea linger near at the right time. Dorothea loved being on the virtuous outside of a fight. If one showed signs of dying, she knew how to ask the right question or say the innocent word to revive it once more. Dorothea contemplated Joyce now with deep satisfaction.

  The doctor’s car was scarcely out of the gate and down the road before the storm broke once more upon Joyce’s tired head.

  Joyce did not wait to go upstairs to her room and change her dress. She took off her hat on the way to the kitchen and put it and her bag and books and papers on the little bench outside the kitchen door where no one would be likely to notice them. She enveloped herself in a big kitchen apron and went to work preparing the vegetables for dinner and getting out materials for a jelly roll. Then Nan entered, blue blazes in her eyes.

  Nan had not taken off her hat yet, and around her neck she was wearing Joyce’s pretty gray fox neckpiece, Aunt Mary’s last Christmas gift, which Joyce had supposed was safely put away in camphor on her closet shelf. Joyce had not noticed it in the darkness of the hall, but now the indignity struck her in the face like a blow as Nan stood out in the open doorway smartly gowned and powdered and rouged just a bit, her face angry and haughty, her air imperious.

  “You ungrateful, wicked girl!” broke forth Nan. “You might just as well have been a murderer! Suppose Junior had been brought home dying and no one to open the house?”

  “I’m sorry, Nan,” began Joyce. “I did not expect to be gone so long. I was told there would be only one examination today.”

  “Examinations! Don’t talk to me about examinations! That’s all you care about! It’s nothing to you that the little child who has lived under the same roof with you for three years is seriously hurt. It’s nothing to you even if he had been killed. And he might have been killed, easily! Yes, he might, you wicked girl! It was at noon he was playing ball when he got hit, and you knew I didn’t want him to stay at school at noontime just for that reason. The bad boys tried to hurt him,” she raved on. “It was your fault. Entirely your fault!”

  There was absolutely no use in trying to say anything in reply. Nannette would not let her. Whenever she opened her lips to say she was sorry, her cousin screamed the louder till Joyce finally closed her lips and went about her work with white, set face, wishing somehow she might get away from this awful earth for a little while, wondering what would be the outcome of all this when Gene got home. Gene was not very careful himself about Junior. He spoiled him horribly, but he was very intent about defending him always. As she went about her kitchen work, she tried to think what she could say or do that would still the tempest. It seemed to her that her heart was bursting with the trouble. Maybe she should have stayed at home. But that would have meant everlasting dependence upon those to whom she was not closely bound. And Junior had already recovered sufficiently to be out in his bandages swinging on the gate. He could not be seriously injured. Oh, why could she not have died instead of Aunt Mary! Why did people have to bring children into the world and then leave them to fend for themselves where they were not wanted? What was life all for anyway?

  Dorothea hovered around like a hissing wasp, filching the apples as they were peeled and quartered for the applesauce, sticking a much-soiled finger into the cake batter, licking it, and applying it again to the batter several times, in spite of Joyce’s protests. She seemed to know that her mother would not reprove her for anything she did to annoy Joyce tonight.

  Gene came in while Joyce was taking up the dinner, and Joyce could hear his wife telling him in a high, suppressed key all the wrongs of the day, with her own garbled account of Junior’s accident and Joyce’s disregard of orders. So the tears stung in her eyes and her hot cheeks flushed warmer, and the only thing in the world that gave her any comfort was the sweet spring breath from the meadow coming in the kitchen door as she passed and repassed, carrying dishes of potatoes and cabbage and fried pork chops. Their mingled hot odors smothered her as they steamed up into her face, and then would come that sweet, cool breeze, blowing them aside, laying a cool hand on her wet brow like the hand of a gentle mother. How she longed to fly away into the coolness and sweetness and leave it all behind. How many times during the last two hard weeks had she looked out that kitchen door across the meadows and longed to be walking across them into the world away from it all forever.

  Gene came into the dining room just as she set the hot coffeepot down on the table, and he looked at her with his cold blue eyes, a look that was like a long, thin blade of steel piercing to her very soul. She thought she had never before seen such a look of contempt and hate. She felt as if it were something tangible that he had inserted into her soul that she would never be able to get out again.

  “W
ell, you’re a pretty one, aren’t you? Mother was always boasting about how dependable you were. I wonder what she would think of you now! I always knew you had it in you. You’re just like your contemptible father! Get an idea in your head and have to carry it out. Bullheaded. That’s what you are. That’s what he was. I remember hearing all about it. He wanted to study up some germ and make himself famous. Had to go and get into some awful disease, subject himself to danger, and finally got the disease and died. Pretended he was doing a great thing for humanity at large but left his wife and child for her poor sister to support and saddled us all with a girl just like him to house and feed and clothe. Now, young lady, I want you to understand from this time forth that we’re done with nonsense, and whether you pass or whether you don’t pass, your place is right here in this house doing the work and taking the orders from my wife! I’ve got you to look after, and I’ll do it, but I don’t intend to stand any more of your pranks. Do you hear? I won’t have anybody in my house that doesn’t obey me!”

  Joyce looked at him in a kind of tired wonder. She knew there were things being said that were dissecting her very soul, and that by and by when she moved, she would bleed. Perhaps her soul might bleed to death with the sharpness of it all, but just now she didn’t have the strength to resent, to say anything to refute the awful half-truths he was speaking, to shout out, as she felt she ought, that he had no right to speak that way about her dear, dead father whom she had not known much, could scarcely remember, but had been taught by both mother and aunt to love dearly. She could only stand and stare at him as he talked. She was growing white to the lips. Her knees were shaking under her, and the children stared at her curiously. Even Nannette eyed her strangely. She was summoning all her strength for an effort.

  “Cousin Eugene,” she said clearly as if she were talking to someone away off, and her voice steadied as she went on. “You know I don’t have to stay here if you feel this way. I will go!”