Auld Jeremiah/Chapter 5

Old Jeremiah was in his habitual seat by the open window, watching, from want of better entertainment, the last stages in the demolition of a house directly opposite his own, when the footman entered, and offered him a card that bore the name of Miss Ailsa Graeme. It was over a fortnight since she had come to him with her letter of introduction, and Jeremiah had heard that she was visiting at his brother's summer home on Long Island.

“Ye will show the lady up,” said he, wondering a little at the motive of the visit.

As Ailsa entered the room, the old man raised his shaggy eyebrows, and looked at her in surprise. Although the girl was dressed as on her previous visit, the keen eyes of Jeremiah detected immediately a subtle difference. There was no trace of the shy friendliness that had characterized her manner when he had seen her first. Ailsa held herself erect, and there was a certain combative expression about her blue-gray eyes and in the contour of the firm little chin.

“I wish ye good mornin',” said Jeremiah pleasantly enough. “And how is all goin' with ye, my dear? Take this chair by the window, so I will not have to twist my neck.”

“You are looking better, Mr. Wishart,” said Ailsa, seating herself.

“I am feelin' a bit stronger, I thank ye. At times I think I may yet fool these medical frauds. The paralysis appears to be goin' down, rather than up.”

“I am very glad to hear it. Mr. Wishart. I wish to ask you a few questions, if I may make so bold.”

“As many as ye like. And how do you like it out there in the country?”

“They are all very kind,” Ailsa answered a little shortly. “Mr. Wishart, when first you told me about Mr. David Wishart, did you not speak of him as 'Archie'?”

Jeremiah rubbed his stubbly chin.

“I may have done so,” he answered, and shot her a keen look from his hard old eyes, which seemed a little less sunken than before. “His middle name is 'Archibald.'”

“That is true. But nobody ever calls him anything but 'David.' But did you not also give me to understand that he was a spendthrift and a ne'er-do-weel, and that he had just gone through a fortune left him by his father?”

“Perhaps I may have been saying something of the sort,” said Jeremiah, and squirmed a little in his chair.

A straight line drew itself between Ailsa's dark eyebrows, and she looked at the old man with an expression of mingled displeasure and bewilderment.

“You told me also,” she continued, “that his face was never without a smile, that he painted for his pleasure, and that he was very fond of, or kind to, animals. Now, Mr. David never smiles except when he wants to be polite, or has said something rather disagreeable; he does not paint at all; and only yesterday I heard a dog yelping, and, looking out of my window, I saw David beating it unmercifully with a riding crop, all because the poor beastie had jumped up and muddied his cuff. Now, why did you tell me all those things, Mr. Wishart?”

Old Jeremiah wriggled uneasily in his chair. Ailsa watched him intently, and the puzzled expression in her eyes deepened.

“Aweel,” said the old man, after a moment's hesitation, “I may as well confess. Ye must know, then, that David was not the husband I first picked for ye.”

“What cried Ailsa, leaning forward, with parted red lips.

“No. Ye see, I have another nephew—Archie Loveday by name. 'Twas to him I was minded to see you married, and 'twas him ye were to meet here at luncheon. Now, if ye had kept your engagement, as by rights ye should have done at any cost, all would have been well, and no doubt ye would have been a wife by now, for Archie is no procrastinator like yon sanctimonious fool, David. As ye were not here, I broached the subject to him, and he would have none of it.”

“Ah-h-h!” Ailsa let her breath out slowly. The high color mounted to her eyes. Jeremiah looked at her, then quickly out of the window.

“So—he would have none of me?” said she slowly.

“He would have none of it—the marryin',” Jeremiah snapped. “Now, if ye had kept—”

“Then where does David come in?” she interrupted.

“He cam' in just after Archie had gone out. He gave me some of his lip”

“Who—David?”

“David? No fear! “Twas Archie answered me to my face, and that I will tak' from no man. Ye must know, I was displeased with the two of ye, so when David cam' in I told him what had happened, and that I was done wi' Archie, and that he might tak' his place. No doubt he will mak' ye a better husband than Archie, who was always a restless body.”

“No,” said Ailsa quietly, “I do not agree with you, Mr. Wishart.” She rose.

“What is pressin' ye?” asked the old man querulously

“I must meet Mrs. Wishart. We are going out together. You see, we came in for the day to do shopping, and I just ran in to ask you to clear up some things that puzzled me. Good afternoon, Mr. Wishart.”

“Wait a bit. Y'are not angry?”

“Indeed, and what right have I to be angry?” Ailsa's voice was cool and limpid as lake water. “It is not every girl who is given the chance to marry four million pounds, Mr. Wishart. I wish you good afternoon.”

With a grunt, old Jeremiah touched his bell, and the footman saw the angry beauty to the door.

For Ailsa was in a towering rage. She felt that she could have boxed the ears of this crafty old brute, who, as it seemed to the girl, had cold-bloodedly bought her for the perpetuation of his money and his race. She felt that he had bought her as one might buy a domestic animal, and given her to a nephew whom he despised, without so much as his blessing, but with a premium of four million pounds. And that sum had been the sole incentive of David's indecent haste to claim her and seal the bargain.

Hot tears of mortification welled up in her eyes. She had been traded in like any other live stock, duped and shamed. The worst of it was that David had known that she had been previously offered to his cousin, who, although a ruined man, had tossed aside his uncle's offer with anger and contempt, and in so doing had voluntarily sacrificed any hopes of an inheritance.

The whole affair, as Ailsa saw it now, was far worse than she had anticipated. She had thought it probable that old Jeremiah had, in describing his nephew to her, craftily endowed him with qualities that he imagined might appeal to her romantic sense. That she might possibly have forgiven. But to be offered to one man, cast aside, then snapped up by the second choice was more than the girl's proud Highland spirit could endure.

For a moment she was tempted to go straight back to the house of her relative, and write to Mrs. Wishart, requesting that her things be sent to her there. But this, she felt, would be unworthy of her. Besides, she wanted to have it out with David, and to tell him what she thought of him.

This much she knew—whatever the young man's initial motive had been, he was now as much in love with her for herself as was possible for a man of his cold, calculating nature. He had brought his punishment upon himself, and Ailsa meant to see that he got it in full measure.

There was also David's family to consider. Mrs. Wishart had been very kind to her in her rather worldly way, though Ailsa, who was not lacking in imagination and an instinctive estimate of people, could imagine what her attitude might have been had she not been herself a prospective heiress.

Wherefore she resolutely winked back the tears, met Mrs. Wishart as had been arranged, and went out with her to Bonny Brae. It was a Saturday, and David was waiting on the veranda when they arrived at about five o'clock.

“So here you are at last!” said he. “Come, Ailsa, we've just got time for a little walk before dressing.”

“If you will wait a minute,” she answered, not looking at him, “I should like to change my shoes.”

“All right. Don't be long.”

As Ailsa went up to her room, her mind was working swiftly. It was no easy thing that she had set herself to do. For nearly a week now she had been tacitly regarded as David's fiancée, although she had not as yet pledged herself to him. Considering the shortness of their acquaintance, none of the rest of the family were inclined to urge any haste in the matter, the more so as it had been reported that old Jeremiah's illness had taken a turn for the better.

Therefore, as the matter stood, Ailsa was considered as virtually betrothed, and therefore a daughter of the house. Aside from the great fortune that was to come into the immediate family, the Wisharts had to congratulate themselves on the charming personality of their prospective daughter-in-law.

Ailsa knew that they liked and admired her, and as she paused, her foot half in her shoe, and thought of the consternation that she was presently to cause, her heart almost failed her, and she wished that she had yielded to her first impulse, and fled to the refuge of her relative's house immediately on leaving the head of the family.

But the thing had got to be gone through with, so she set her square little jaw, laced up her stout walking shoes, picked up a dog whip, and, whistling to a large Airedale who had attached himself to her person almost immediately on her arrival at Bonny Brae, went down to join David, who was striding up and down impatiently.

“Would you like to walk through the pines?” he asked.

“Wherever you would be wishing to go,” she answered.

They crossed the lawn with Mac, the Airedale terrier, bounding at Ailsa's side, with a wary eye upon David. Dogs and children quickly learned to give David a wide berth.

Following the highway for a short distance, they turned presently into a lane that led through an extensive piece of woods, principally pine and cedar. For a while they strolled on in silence, each one deep in thought, and trying to determine the best manner of expressing that which was on the mind. David finally broke the silence.

“Don't you think, Ailsa,” said he, in his heavy voice, “that we might announce our engagement pretty soon?”

“I am learning for the first time that we are engaged,” said Ailsa, trying to steady her voice.

David shot her a questioning look.

“I thought it was practically understood,” said he.

“That is not what I am thinking myself,” she answered.

“But what do you mean, Ailsa? Surely you do not contemplate refusing to marry me?”

Ailsa hesitated. In her first flush of anger on learning the truth from Jeremiah, she had ardently desired just such an opening to tell David precisely what she thought of him and his methods. But in the time that had elapsed since then, the righteous indignation that would have nerved her for such a scene had cooled considerably, and although still smarting at the idea of the part that she had been tricked into playing, she found it very difficult to say what was in her mind. Though not lacking in courage, she had always been the least bit afraid of David; and, now that the moment had arrived for expressing herself plainly, she asked no more than to get out of the business as easily and with as little ill feeling as possible.

“When you came first to see me,” said she, “you told me that if, when we became better acquainted, I found that I could never care for you in the way that a girl should care for the man she means to marry, I should only have to say so, and you would be content to remain my friend. Well, then, David, you must know that I can never care for you enough to marry you, so there is the end of it all.”

David stopped short in his tracks, stared at her for an instant, then strode on, with his thin lips set like a vise. Ailsa was forced to quicken her steps almost to a run to keep pace with him.

“And when did you arrive at this conclusion?” he asked presently, staring straight ahead.

“The day I looked from my window and saw you beating Mac,” she answered. “But there are other reasons why I could never care for you, if you are wishing to know them.” Now that the battle was on, Ailsa felt her courage returning.

“They would be very interesting,” David answered curtly.

“Well, then, you must know that you are not at all the man your uncle described to me.” She threw him a furtive, sidelong glance. David was striding along, his face rather pale, his lips sucked in, and his stony eyes staring straight ahead.

“Indeed! And how is that?”

“When I asked him what this nephew was like that he wished me to marry, he said that he was a ne'er-do-weel and a vagabond who had already gone through one fortune and was waiting only the chance to go through another. He said that he frittered away his time with the painting, and that his habits were not of the best”

David's head turned sharply on his shoulders, like the head of an eagle. “And is that the sort of husband you prefer to me?” he asked harshly.

“He said also,” Ailsa went on, “that his lips were never without a smile, and that his heart was kind—especially to animals. Now, where could he have got all those ideas?”

David shot her a quick look of suspicion. Ailsa's face was as artless as the little woodland lane they followed. David shrugged.

“He is an old man in his dotage,” he answered sullenly. “I have a worthless fool of a cousin who answers that general description. No doubt he got us mixed. Now, see here, Ailsa, do you realize what you are saying?”

“At the least, I am telling the truth,” she answered.

He gave her another quick look. The girl's face was a little pale, and her chin was set doggedly. David plowed ahead. The dog, as if sensing some ugly emotion, kept close to Ailsa's side.

“See here,” said David, “do you realize that you are juggling with the chance of a lifetime? All sentiment aside, just stop to consider what it means for us to marry. You would be so rich as to find it impossible to spend a quarter of your income. Think of what you could do for your grandfather and your Sister Nell and your five cousins—and any other of your friends and relatives. You could buy your grandfather an estate, and marry your sister to the son of an earl if you chose, and give the children the best of educations, and start them all in life.

“Money is power, no matter what fools say about the beauties of poverty. And as for love”—he turned and looked at her with deep fires in his somber eyes—“I offer you the best that I am capable of, and you must feel that at least it is sincere.”

Ailsa's breath came quickly. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. David was quick to profit by her indecision.

“We must not always think of ourselves alone,” said he. “Even if you do not love me at this moment, there have been plenty of cases where love came after marriage, and why not in yours? I should make you a kind and faithful husband, Ailsa. Every day I have come to love you more, and if I am sometimes harsh and rough it is simply because my life has had no softening influence. I am a business man, and that in this country means a wolf running with the pack. The slightest sign of weakness, and one is down for the others to rip and tear. Come, Ailsa”

He reached for her hand, but the girl drew back, frightened, yet fascinated. Against her knee she felt a low vibration as Mac crowded close, his hackles lifting slightly, and his pale eyes fixed on David. Neither noticed the dog.

But David was making the fight of his life. It is possible that for the moment he actually thought less of the money stake than of his hunger for the fresh, lovely girl whom he had already come to consider as his own. Yet he did not lose his head or forget to play his hand to its fullest potential value. He flung out both his hands—and again the low rumble vibrated against Ailsa's knee. Instinctively she reached down and touched the dog's head with the butt of the heavy dog whip.

“Listen to me, Ailsa! Even if you can't care for me now, I am sure that I can bring you to do so some day. As for this money, I'll admit that that is what appealed to me at first, but only until I met you. As it stands now, I will give you my word to deed it all to you the day that we are married, if only you will deed yourself to me.

“And think again what you can do with it. Don't you think that there are times in the lives of us all when we are called upon to make a personal sacrifice of our feelings for the sake of those we love—and who love us? Alone, what can you do to help your relatives? Let me tell you that even a girl with a technical business education is often hard put to it merely to support herself in these days. You can't afford to let your relatives suffer poverty, can you? Don't you consider it your duty to make this sacrifice?”

Ailsa quivered. Then she looked at David, and a little shudder ran through her supple body. He saw it, and it infuriated him, robbed him of his self-control. With a quick movement, he turned, caught her in his arms, drew her to him in a grasp that stifled her breath, and crushed his lips against hers; and as he did so there came a snarl from beneath, and David was conscious of a tearing pain in the muscles of his leg. Yet in the heat of his passion he ignored it, and tightened his clasp on the struggling girl.

In his arms, Ailsa was raging like a fury. “Let me go!” she panted, “Oh, you brute—you beast—you cad—let go!”

Strong as she was, she wrenched herself away; then, stepping quickly back, with blazing eyes, she raised the heavy dog whip, and lashed him with all her strength across the face. The shock of the blow staggered him, and Ailsa sprang away. David recovered himself, and seemed about to rush upon her.

“Look out!” she screamed. “The dog!”

David paused. His face .was livid, and his eyes murderous. But as they fell upon the Airedale, crouched at Ailsa's feet, his flanks quivering for a spring, this time at the throat, the man drew back. David possessed that constitutional fear of dogs peculiar to some men who are afraid of little else.

For a moment he stood there, glaring at the girl; and as Ailsa watched him, sick with horror, she saw the purple weal left by the lash draw itself across his pallid face. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel, and strode blindly back up the lane.