HOW GRANNIE SCHEMED SCHEMES
Stephen Gard’s experience of women had been small.
His mother had been everything to him till she died, when he was
fourteen, and he went to sea.
When she was gone, that which she had put into him remained, and kept
him clear of many of the snares to which the life of the young sailorman
is peculiarly liable.
When he attained a position of responsibility he had had no time for
anything else. And so, of his own experience, he knew little of women
and their ways.
Less, indeed, than Nance knew of men and their ways. And that was not
very much and tended chiefly to scorn and dissatisfaction, seeing that
her knowledge was gleaned almost entirely from her experiences of Tom
and Peter Mauger. Her father was, of course, her father, and on somewhat
of a different plane from other men.
And so, if Nance was a wonder and a revelation to Gard, Gard was no less
of, at all events, a novelty in the way of mankind to Nance.
His quiet bearing and good manners, after a life-long course of Tom, had
a distinct attraction for her.
That he could burst into flame if occasion required, she was convinced.
For, more than once, out of the corner of her eye and round the edge of
her sun-bonnet, she had caught his thunderous looks of disgust at some
of Tom’s carryings-on.
She would, perhaps, have been ashamed to confess it but, somewhere down
in her heart, she rather hoped, sooner or later, to see his lightning as
well. It would be worth seeing, and she was inclined to think it would
be good for Tom--and the rest of the family.
For Gard looked as if he could give a good account of himself in case of
need. His well-built, tight-knit figure gave one the impression that he
was even stronger than he looked.
If only he had been a Sark man and had nothing to do with those horrid
mines! But all her greatest dislikes met in him, and she could not bring
herself to the point of relaxing one iota in these matters of which he
was unfortunately and unconsciously guilty.
The state of affairs at the mines improved not one whit as the months
dragged on. There was a smouldering core of discontent which might break
into flame at any moment--or into disastrous explosion if the necessary
element were added.
Old Tom did his best, and stood loyally by the new captain and the
interests of the mine and himself. But he was in a minority and could so
far do no more than oppose vehement talk to vehement talk, and that, as
a rule, is much like pouring oil on roaring flames.
Not many of those who were shareholders in the mine were also workers in
it, and the workers met constantly at the house of a neighbour, who had
turned his kitchen to an undomestic but profitable purpose by supplying
drink to the miners at what seemed to the English and Welshmen
ridiculously low prices.
In that kitchen the new captain and his new methods were vehemently
discussed and handled roughly enough--in words. And hot words and the
thoughts they excite, and wild thoughts and the words they find vent in,
are at times the breeders of deeds that were better left undone.
To all financially interested in the mines the need for strictest
economy and fullest efficiency was patent enough. It was still a case of
faith and hope--a case of continual putting in of work and money, and,
so far, of getting little out--except the dross which intervened between
them and their highest hopes.
There was silver there without a doubt, and the many thin veins they
came across lured them on with constant hope of mighty pockets and
deposits of which these were but the flying indications.
And all putting in and getting nothing out results in stressful times,
in business ventures as in the case of individuals. The great shafts
sank deeper and deeper, the galleries branched out far under the sea,
and there was a constant call for more and more money, lest that already
sunk should be lost.
Mr. Hamon, disappointed in his view of raising money on the farm by
Tom’s obstinacy, in the bitterness of his spirit and the urgent
necessities of the mines, conceived a new idea which, if he was able to
carry it out, would serve the double purpose of satisfying his own needs
at the recalcitrant Tom’s expense.
“I must have more money for the mines,” he said to his wife one day in
private. “I’m thinking of selling the farm.”
“Selling the farm?” gasped Mrs. Hamon, doubtful of her own hearing. For
selling the farm is the very last resource of the utterly unfortunate.
“Aye, selling the farm. Why not? It’ll all come back twenty times over
when we strike the pockets, and then we can live where we will, or we
can go across to Guernsey, or to England if you like.”
But Mrs. Hamon was silent and full of thought. She had no desire for
wealth, and still less to live in Guernsey or in England, or anywhere in
the world but Sark.
He had been a good husband to her on the whole, until this silver craze
absorbed him. She had never found it necessary to counter his wishes
before. But this idea of selling the farm cut to the very roots of her
life.
For Nance’s sake and Bernel’s she must oppose it with all that was in
her. If the farm were sold the money would all go into those gaping
black mouths and bottomless pits at Port Gorey. The home would be broken
up--an end of all things. It must not be.
“I should think many times before selling the farm if I were you,” she
said quietly, and left it there for the moment.
But old Tom, having made up his mind, and the necessities of the case
pressing, lost no time over the matter.
“I’ve been speaking to John Guille about that business,” he said, next
day, in a confidently casual way.
“About--?”
“About the farm. He’ll give me six hundred pounds for it and take the
stock at what it’s worth, and he’s willing we should stop on as tenants
at fifty pounds a year rent.”
His wife was ominously silent. He glanced at her doubtfully.
“I shall stop on as tenant for the present and Tom can go on working
it. When we reach the silver, and the money begins to come back, we can
decide what to do afterwards.”
Still his wife said nothing, but her face was white and set. It was hard
for her to put herself in opposition to him, but here she found it
necessary. He was going too far.
It was only when the silence had grown ominous and painful, that she
said, slowly and with difficulty--
“I’m sorry to look like going against you, Tom, but I can’t see it right
you should sell the farm.”
“It’ll make no difference to you and the young ones. I’ll see to that.”
“It’s not right and you mustn’t do it.”
“Mustn’t do it!--And it’s as good as done!”
“It can’t be done until your mother and I consent, and we can’t see it’s
a right thing to do.”
“Can’t you see that you’re only saving the farm for Tom?” he argued
wrathfully, bottling his anger as well as he could. “It’s nothing to you
and the young ones in any case.”
“I know, but all the same it’s not right. If it was to buy another farm
it would be different, for you could leave it as you choose. But to
throw away the money on those mines--”
This was a lapse from diplomacy and old Tom resented it.
“Throw the money away!” he shouted, casting all restraint to the winds.
“Who’s going to throw the money away? It’s like you women. You never can
see beyond the ends of your noses. I’ll tell you what I’ll do--I’ll pay
you out your dower right in hard cash. Will that satisfy you?”
If he died she would have a life interest in one-third of the farm, but
could not, of course, will it to Nance or Bernel. If he sold the farm
and paid her her lawful third in cash, she could do what she chose with
it. It was therefore distinctly to her own interest to fall in with his
plan.
But, dearly as she would have liked to make some provision, however
small, for Nance and Bernel, her whole Sark soul was up in arms against
the idea of selling the farm.
It would feel like a break-up of life. Nothing, she was sure, would ever
be the same again.
“It’s not right,” she said simply.
“You’re a fool--” and then the look on her quiet face--such a look as
she might have worn if he had struck her--penetrated the storm-cloud of
his anger. He remembered her years of wifely patience and faithful
service, “--a foolish woman. A Sark wife should know which side of her
bread the butter is on. Can’t you see--”
“I know all that, Tom, but I hope you’ll give up this notion of selling
the farm. Your mother feels just as I do about it. We’ve talked it
over--”
“I’ll talk to her,” and he went in at once to the old lady’s room.
But Grannie gave him no time for argument.
“It’s you’s the fool, Tom,” she said decisively, as he crossed the
threshold. “There’s not enough silver in Sark to make a plate for your
coffin.”
“I brought out more’n enough to make your plate and mine, myself
to-day,” he said triumphantly.
“Ah, bah! You’d have done better for yourself and for Sark if you’d let
it lie.”
“I’d have done better still if I’d got twice as much.”
“If the good God set silver inside Sark, it was because He thought it
was the best place for it, and it’s not for the likes of you to be
trying to get it out.”
“What’s it there for if it’s not to be got out?”
“You mark me, Tom Hamon, no good will come of all this upsetting and
digging out the insides of the Island--nenni-gia!”
“Pergui, mother, where do you think all the silver and gold in the world
came from?”
“It didn’t come out of our Sark rocks any way, mon gars.”
“Good thing for us if it had, ma fé! But, see you here, mother, if I
sell the farm it’s not you and Nance that need trouble. If I pay out
your dowers in hard cash you’re both of you better off than you are now,
and I’m better off too. It’s only Tom could complain, and--”
“It’s hard on the lad.”
“Bidemme, it’s no more than he deserves for his goings-on! Maybe it’ll
do him good to have to work for his living.”
“And you would do that to get your bit more money to throw into those
big holes?”
“Never you mind me. I’ll take care of myself, and we’ll see who’s wisest
in the end. Now, will you agree to it?”
“I’ll talk it over with Nancy again,” and the big black sun-bonnet
nodded with sapient significance. “Send her to me.”
“It’s from you I got my good sense,” said old Tom approvingly, and went
off in search of his wife, while the clever old lady pondered deep
schemes.
“Here’s the way of it, Nancy,” she said, when Mrs. Hamon came in. “He’s
crazy on these silver mines, and he’s willing to pay out our dowers,
yours and mine, so that he may throw the rest into the big holes at Port
Gorey. Ch’est b’en! Your money and mine take more than half of what he
gets. If you’ll put yours to mine I’ll make up the difference from what
I’ve saved, and we’ll retraite the farm, and it shall go to Nance and
Bernel when the time comes.”
“I can’t help thinking it’s rather hard on Tom,” suggested Mrs. Hamon,
with less vigour than before.
The idea appealed strongly to her maternal feelings and she had suffered
much from Tom; still her instinct for right was there and was not to be
stifled with a word.
“If you feel so when the time comes we could divide it among them, and
till then Tom would have to behave himself,” said the wily old lady,
with a chuckle.
That again appealed strongly to Mrs. Hamon.
“Yes, I think I would agree to that,” she said, after thinking it all
over.
All things considered, Grannie’s scheme was an excellent one and worthy
of her.
By a curious anomaly of Sark law, though a man may not mortgage his
property without the consent of his next-in-succession, he can sell it
outright and do what he chooses with the proceeds. His wife has a dower
right of one-third of both real and personal estate, into which she
enters upon his death. The right, however, is there while he still
lives, and must be taken into consideration in any sale of the property.
All property is sold subject to the “retraite”; in plain English, no
sale is completed for six weeks, and within that time every member of
the seller’s family, in due order of succession, even to the collateral
branches, has the right to take over, or withdraw, the property at the
same price as has been agreed upon, paying in addition to the Seigneur
the trézième or thirteenth part of the price, as by law provided.
If Grannie’s scheme were carried out, therefore, she and Mrs. Hamon
would become owners of the farm. Tom would be there on sufferance and
might be kept within bounds or kicked out. Old Tom would have something
more to throw into the holes at Port Gorey. And Nance and Bernel could
be adequately provided for. An excellent scheme, therefore, for all
concerned--except young Tom, who would have to behave himself better
than he was in the habit of doing or suffer the consequences.
“Yes,” said Nancy. “I don’t see that I’d be doing right by Nance and
Bernel not to agree to that. And if Tom behaves himself,” at which
Grannie grunted doubtfully, “he can have his share when the time comes.”