Not Under the Law

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Half an hour’s ride brought her through a lovely rolling country, past country clubs and estates, and into the real farming district again, then more country clubs, and scattered bungalows and cottages till it seemed evident that she was on the outskirts of a new suburb of the city that was just being developed.

  It might have been the pretty little church, covered with vines and wearing the air of having been there before the bungalows came, that gave her the sudden impulse, or perhaps it was the well-kept hedges and general atmosphere of hominess that pervaded the pleasant streets. She decided to get out and see the place. She was tired of travel in the stuffy, rickety old car, and at least she could get into another car after she had walked awhile if she found no place that seemed livable.

  She got out and followed down a pleasant shaded street of homes, at first drinking in the beauty of the well-kept lawns and newly planted gardens and hedge rows, turning corners and admiring bits of stone dwellings, bungalows, all on one floor with charming variance of rough stone pillars and porches. Turning two or three corners thus, she came upon what seemed to be a large estate, an old stone house far back from the road almost hidden by wonderful trees and dense, clustering shrubbery. It had the air of having been a fine old house of a time past, probably the original estate from which the whole town had been divided. And down at the corner in a little V of land where three roads came together and divided, the land sloped from a high wall of hedge, with a tiny graveled path to the sidewalk, there stood the dearest little land office that ever a developing operation dared to build. It was not more than nine or ten feet long and six or seven feet wide, but it had five windows and a door, and the tiniest little front porch with a seat on each side as perfect and complete as any little house that ever was built. A vine had clambered over the portico and spread to cover one entire end, and there were window boxes in the front windows where flowers had grown the past year, though weeds were overrunning them now.

  As she drew nearer, Joyce perceived that it had a neglected air, as if no one owned it or the owner was away and didn’t care, and it seemed somehow so much like her own forlorn self, hunting a home and a place in life, that her heart went out to it wistfully.

  Then strangest of all, just as she was feeling that way, she turned the sharp point of the corner and saw two men working around it at the back and perceived one of them raise a heavy implement and deal a tremendous blow at the little dwelling sitting so cozily there on the little knoll, with such a smiling, inviting air, doing its best to urge people to buy lots and build in this pleasant town.

  The little building shivered in all its timbers, and the sound with which it reacted to the blow seemed something between a groan and a sob. Joyce stood still with horror in her eyes, and then the man raised the heavy iron and swung it back for another blow.

  But Joyce, without knowing what she was doing, was all at once by his side. “Oh!” she cried, putting out a detaining hand upon the exact spot where the iron must strike. “Oh! Don’t!”

  The man paused in his motion and looked at her in wonder, his iron on his shoulder. “Ma’am,” he said, astonished, “did you speak?”

  “Yes,” said Joyce shyly. “Why are you doing that? You will ruin the little house.”

  “Them was the boss’s orders, ma’am. Wreck it. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “But—why? It’s a perfectly good little house.”

  “He wants to clear this here corner, ma’am, and set the hedge out all the way around like the rest. He don’t want no office here anymore. He’s bought the place. He said to get this out of the way the easiest way we knowed how. I’m obeyin’ orders, ma’am!”

  The man raised his arm for another blow and intimated by his glance that he would be pleased if the lady would move a little farther away and give him more room to strike. But Joyce only stepped nearer in her earnestness. “Wouldn’t he … Do you think he might—perhaps—sell it?” she asked eagerly.

  The two men looked at one another amusedly. This was a strange new kind of a girl. But they were dwellers near a great city, and there were all kinds in a city. Their problem was to get rid of this one and go on with their work as soon as possible. The second man took the initiative. “Lady,” he said, stepping up with authority, “the boss is on his way to Europe, an’ we gotta git this here building out o’ this piece of ground before we quit tonight. That’s my contract, an’ I generally manage to keep my contrac’s. That’s how I keep my reputashun—gettin’ things done when I say I will.”

  Joyce drew her brows together thoughtfully. “What are you going to do with this building?” she asked.

  “Break her up an’ cart her off. Got a man comin’ in an hour to clean her up fer the kindlin’ wood. We ain’t got no time to waste, lady.”

  “Then the house is yours? To do as you please with?” Her eyes persisted, looking at the men earnestly.

  “Wal, it amounts to that. Yas, it’s ourn.”

  “Well, then, wouldn’t you sell it?”

  “But I tell you, lady, the house has gotta git off ‘n this here piece o’ ground before tomorra mornin’ or I lose my big contract on the rest o’ this job.”

  “Couldn’t it be moved?” persisted Joyce. “They move houses even bigger than that. I’ve seen them.”

  “Aw, yes, she could be moved. A course she could be moved ef you had a place to put her.”

  “I will get a place,” said Joyce decidedly. “What will you sell the building for?”

  The men looked at one another nonplussed. “I guess we’d take five bucks apiece, wouldn’t we, Tom?” said the older of the men, winking slowly.

  “Sure,” said Tom. “But she’s gotta get outta here this afternoon.”

  Joyce looked anxiously around her as if she hoped to find a bit of handy land close by. “How much time do I have?” she asked. “I’ll have to hunt a place. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. Do you know where I could get a mover?”

  The men grew interested. She really meant business. Well, five bucks was five bucks, of course, and if she really wanted the house, why, they didn’t mind earning double money and getting a bit of a rest in the bargain. They looked at each other again, a long, meaningful glance. “I guess Sam would fix her up, wouldn’t he, Tom? I guess he wouldn’t overcharge her for movin’, would he? He’s got the big jacks along today, ain’t he? An’ she ain’t very big—”

  “What do you think he would charge?” gasped Joyce, awaiting the answer as if her very life depended upon it. It seemed as though she just couldn’t bear to lose that little house. It seemed as though it had just been made for her need, and she found her heart praying, “Oh, heavenly Father, please make it possible; please make it possible!”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t charge you much ef you didn’t go too fur. But I don’t think you ken git enny land. It’s all took up about here.”

  “How much time will you give me?” asked Joyce impatiently, anxiety growing in her face.

  “Well, we goughtta be pullin’ out o’ here in about a nour,” said the older man. “The truck don’t leave fur a nour an’ a quarter. We’ll say a nour an’ ten minutes. That oughtta give you time.”

  “Oh!” gasped Joyce and flew down the street looking around her on either side, and leaving the men gaping after her.

  “Well, all I gotta say is,” said Tom after gazing for some minutes, “she’s some kind of a nut! Do you reckon to wait fer her to come back, er shall I go on bustin’ her up?”

  The older man dropped down comfortably on the grass and took out his pipe. “A bargain’s a bargain, Tom,” he said, cupping his hands around the match. “I allus keeps my contrac’s.”

  “H’m!” said Tom, dropping stiffly beside him. “But s’posen she don’t come back?”

  “She’ll come back,” said the other.

  “But s’posen she can’t find no land?”

  “It’s my opinion, Tom, that she’s one o’ them kind, that ef she can’t find no land, she’ll make a little bit. I
’ve seen ’em before, an’ they can bamboozle the eyeteeth out of a tightwad ef they really try. She’s really tryin’ now. She wants this here cottage bad, an’ I intend she’ll have it.”

  Tom squinted his eyes and observed his chief, thoughtfully remarking after a while, “H’m!”

  Pretty soon the chief arose, took up his implements of work, and went up to the little house. He studied the foundation for a few moments, and then he began with his pick to work around it, loosening the stones in which it was set. Tom arose and followed him, watching his movements a moment. Then he raised his eyes to the side of the little structure as if for the first time he observed it as a dwelling, a housing place for a human being.

  “That’s a purty vine,” he observed. “Too bad it has to die.”

  “It ain’t a-goin’ to die,” said the chief. “We’re a-goin’ to save it. Where’s that there big lard kettle we hed around here? See ef it’s inside the hedge.”

  Tom foraged behind the hedge and brought out a battered tin can.

  The chief dug carefully around the roots of the vine in a good-sized circle, dug it deeply and neatly, and together they lifted the roots of the vine with the earth firmly around it and fit it into the lard kettle.

  “Now, we’ll hev to work it so’s this here don’t git disturbed when we move her,” said the chief.

  Tom found a bit of board and some nails among their tools behind the hedge and made a little shelf on the side of the building upon which they set the can, nailing it firmly to the house so that it would not be disturbed.

  Then with deep satisfaction, the two set about preparing the building for its removal.

  Chapter 9

  Joyce had walked for three blocks in frantic haste with sinking heart before she saw any land that looked at all promising. They were all smug dwellings with beautiful lawns around them, and she had sense enough to know that people who lived in houses of that kind wanted their lawns to themselves and could not be persuaded to sell or rent even a foot for any such sum as she could offer. But the turn of the next block brought in sight a row of neat stores and, just beyond, an old-fashioned house set back from the street built of fieldstone that looked as if it had stood there years before the little new town had ever been heard of. It was neat and trim with a wide piazza the length of the front, and tall spruce and hemlock trees standing in a friendly group around it. There was a street running across between it and the stores, and on this side yard there was a bright garden of flowers and a grassy place with two maple trees just far enough apart to let her little house in, and here Joyce paused and looked with longing eyes. If only she could get permission to put her house here. If she could have it between those maples, with the right to use the side gate! And there was an outside faucet with a hose attached. They might let her get water there!

  She stood for several minutes taking in the whole situation. It would be nice to have the protection of a house nearby, provided nice people lived there. It would be around at the back of the house so the owners would not need to feel they were losing any of their own front yard or privacy, and it was near enough to the street so that she would feel she had a spot of her own.

  It was like Joyce not to hunt up any land agent and try to find a place in the conventional way but to just fasten her eyes upon the desirable spot and then go after it.

  Timidly she opened the gate and went in, choosing the side gate instead of the front. It was unusual to have a gate. That was because it was an old-fashioned house. She was glad there was a gate. It made her feel as if she would be more secure in a little house all by herself to have a gate shutting her in. But this was too much like a fairy tale. She must not get up her hopes. Of course these people wouldn’t hear her request. They would think she was crazy perhaps to dare to ask.

  There was someone in the dining room setting the table. The door was open on a side porch, and she could see as she went up the steps that the table was long and spread with a white cloth, and there were flowers in the middle in a glass bowl, blue violets, quantities of them. The door beyond was open through an airy pantry to a kitchen, and there was a savory odor of broiling meat. She sniffed it hungrily as she put out a timid hand to knock, and thought anxiously that it must be getting late if someone was getting dinner ready so early.

  A pleasant-looking woman with her hair in crimping pins over her forehead and a long, plain gingham apron covering her dress came to the door with a tea towel and a glass in her hand, polishing as she came. Joyce almost lost her voice at the thought of her own audacity while she looked into the pleasant gray eyes of the elderly woman. This was just the kind of woman she would have chosen if the fairy tale were real. But she remembered that ten minutes of her hour were already gone, and she must hurry.

  “I’ve just stopped in to see if there is any possibility that I could rent, or perhaps buy, a few feet of your yard, here at the back. I have a little house, and I want to put it somewhere right away.”

  “A house!” said the woman, astonished. “Why, no, we don’t want to sell any land. This place has been in the family for four generations, and it’ll go on to my son when he comes of age. He’s only in high school yet, but he’s fond of the old place, and we don’t want to give up any more land. We’ve just got about enough. My husband wouldn’t think of selling any, not even a foot.”

  “Would you rent a little spot? It’s a very little house. I could put it quite close to the fence if it was necessary, way at the back.”

  “Mercy, no!” said the woman. “We like our privacy. We wouldn’t want another house so close. It’s bad enough to have all those stores across the street. My husband wouldn’t have sold that land if he’d known they were going to build stores—Mercy! What’s that?”

  The woman had turned with a start of horror, for a flash of light had blazed up from the kitchen that flickered over the room like a sudden illumination, and a pungent odor of burning meat filled the air at the same instant. Strange what a short interval there is between cooking and actual burning, and what a sudden odor burnt meat can impart to a room. The place was filled with it.

  Joyce was standing so that she could see straight into the kitchen range, and she saw exactly what was the matter. There were flames bursting out from the cracks of the gas range oven and flames lighting up the seams of the broiling oven. Having had the same thing happen to herself once when she was cooking, she understood just what had occurred. Without more ceremony, she threw the screen door open and walked in, straight through into the kitchen. While the owner of the calm eyes was hurrying distractedly around the kitchen seeking the pie lifter and a holder, Joyce quickly turned off the gas under the oven and threw open the lower door. It was as she supposed—there was grease and drippings from the broiling chops in the pan below the broiler, and it had caught on fire and was blazing high. It was of no use to try to smother it out or to save the chops. They were burned to a crisp already, and the kitchen was filling fast with a black, oozy soot that was fastening to every immaculate pot and pan and to the wall and ceiling.

  The gray-eyed woman moaned, for the chops were many and expensive, and she was preparing for a company dinner. Then her despair was changed to terror as she saw the flames shoot out into the room, bringing dense, black smoke with them.

  “I’d better call the fire company!” she gasped and turned toward the telephone.

  “No! Wait!” gasped Joyce amid the smoke. “Give me that bread blanket! Quick!”

  The woman seized the thick, soft woolen cloth that lay tucked snugly around three pans of biscuits on the table, and Joyce swathed her hands in its folds. Courageously gripping the broiling pan and broiler, chops and all, she carried them flaming to the back door and flung them out into the grass.

  It was all done in a second, and the two stood in the doorway and watched the conquered fire flash up a few times and go out. Then the woman turned to the girl. “You’re wonderful!” she said earnestly. “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I should have do
ne if I’d been alone. I never could have carried that out all afire that way. I don’t see how you did it. And you got burned! I’ll bet you did! Yes, and there on your arm, too. That’s too bad! Now come over here, and I’ll do it up. I’ve got some sweet oil and linen.”

  The tears of pain were stinging Joyce’s eyes, but she shook her head and tried to smile.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I haven’t time to wait. I’ll just put it in cold water a minute to take the smart out, and then if you have some baking soda, I’ll cover it up and it’ll be all right. It’s not much of a burn anyway, and it was my fault your meat burned. If I hadn’t hindered you, you wouldn’t have forgotten it. I’m afraid you were going to have company, too. I think I ought to pay for the meat.”

  “Oh, no, it wasn’t your fault. I ought not to have left that grease in the pan. I knew it was there, and I just forgot it. But I don’t know what I’m going to do about the chops. It’s Wednesday afternoon, and all the stores are closed. My company comes on the five o’clock train, my cousins from New York on their way up from Florida, and they’re only going to stop over till the nine o’clock train. I don’t see them very often, and I’d like to have a little something extra, and now I don’t know what I am going to do. I shouldn’t have broiled them so long beforehand, only I wanted to get the smell out of the house before the folks came, and I knew I could keep them warm in the warming oven all right. Now what in time am I going to do for meat?”

  “Haven’t you got anything at all in the house?” asked Joyce, turning from dusting her burns with soda.

  “Nothing but some ham. Got plenty of that on hand, bought a whole one the other day, but one doesn’t want to give New York City folks fried ham for dinner. That’s kind of farm food. I wanted a little something nice.”

  “Do you ever bake it in milk?” asked Joyce, wishing she knew some way to help the woman, for she understood her distress and felt that she was really to blame for having bothered her when she was busy.