Ainslee's Magazine/Auld Jeremiah/Chapter 1
CHAPTER I.
OLD Jeremiah Wishart had been told that he was dying, and was glad of it. He said that he had no desire to live longer in a world that contained so many fools. Besides this, he was beginning to hate himself almost as much as he hated everybody else, and it seemed to him that he could feel the paralysis creeping up his withered body as the Fundy tide might have crept up that of some unfortunate Passamaquoddy staked out on the flats by his tribal enemies.
There was only one thing about the business that bothered Jeremiah, and that was the disposition of the enormous fortune that he had accumulated at the cost of his fellow man. He had never married, had no immediate family, and, with one exception, hated his relatives even more than he did the rest of the world; and that was saying a great deal.
This one exception was a scapegrace nephew who had already gone through a large fortune of his own, exhausted the forbearance of friends and family, and had recently passed through bankruptcy. His name was Archibald Wishart Loveday, and he was the only son of Jeremiah's only sister, whom Jeremiah had always intensely disliked.
Archibald's father had been a buyer of Scotch woolen goods for a large New York clothing concern, of which he later became the head. Finding himself an orphan at twenty-two, Archie had sold out his inherited interest, and spent the proceeds with impartiality in a number of foreign countries. The last cipher being clipped from its preceding figure, Archibald, who was possessed of consummate cheek and a rather overdeveloped sense of humor, went to his uncle.
“Uncle Jerry,” said he, “I'm broke.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
Jeremiah spoke the truth. Both his pleasure and profit in life had come from seeing other people lose their money. Also, he had sincerely hated his brother-in-law, and it pleased him to think that the fortune acquired by that gentleman should have been so quickly dissipated.
“I thought that you would be,” said Archibald cheerfully. “That's one of the reasons I had for coming to tell you about it.”
“And what may the other be?”
“The other is that I've got a loft full of my pictures, and thought that maybe you might like to buy 'em.”
“Oh, did ye now? And what will you be askin' for yon masterpieces?”
“Seeing that you are my uncle,” said Archibald, “I will let you have them at your own price. You see, Uncle Jerry, nobody else will have 'em at any price.”
“Y'are a good salesman. Well, then, ye can take your pictures and go to the devil!”
Archibald shook his head. “That's too slow a way of getting there, uncle. This is really the chance of your lifetime. Just think what a pleasure it would be to leave them to your friends and relatives.”
Old Jeremiah's face twisted into the best that it could do for a grin. Like others of his harsh breed, he was not without a sense of grim, sardonic humor. The idea tickled him. He bent his bushy brows on the immaculate young man.
“Y'are not such a fool as ye look, young man. I will gi'e ye five dollars apiece for the lot.”
“Done with you!” said Archie. “I'll bring 'em around to-morrow. Did I hear you ask me to have a drink, Uncle Jerry?”
Old Jeremiah touched his bell. “Bring the whusky,” he growled to the footman.
The following day, as old Jeremiah sat in his invalid's chair, looking out from his open window like some battered, captive eagle, he saw a large van turn the corner of Fifth Avenue, and his eyesight being of the best, even at that long range, he discovered Archie perched aloft beside the driver, a bull-necked Irishman.
Both were smoking large, black cigars, and as they approached the house both looked up at his window and grinned. Archie flourished his hand. Then the van disappeared under the window sill, and Jeremiah heard a lusty “Whoa!” as its progress was arrested. A minute or two later Archie entered the room, cheerful and immaculate as ever.
“And what's all this in the van?” snapped Jeremiah, with a disagreeable sensation of having been beaten on a deal.
“My work of the last five years, uncle, which I am letting you have at an enormous sacrifice. I have been a very prolific painter, you know, so if there should possibly be more pictures than you happen to have friends, you can leave the balance to the Museum of Art.”
“How many of the daubs have ye there?” asked Jeremiah almost shrinkingly.
“Five hundred and eighty-three, uncle—and I've thrown in a number of sketches and studies for good measure.”
“Five hunder' and eighty-three.” Jeremiah half closed his sunken eyes. “That is two thousand nine hundred and fifteen dollars I will be owin' ye. Give me a pen and my check book in the desk beyond.”
Archie did so with alacrity. The old man wrote the check, blotted it, and tossed it to his nephew with a grunt, then eyed the young man like a hawk about to strike.
“I suppose ye think 'tis a smart trick ye have played on a dyin' man?”
“Well,” said Archie modestly, “I don't like to boast, but I can't think at this moment of anybody else that could get the best of Jeremiah Wishart, sick or well. And as for dying, you will probably live to plant the bonny, bonny heather on little Archie's grave.”
“And what makes ye think that?”
“Because the doctors say you are done for, and doctors are fools.”
Old Jeremiah brightened perceptibly. “Will ye have a drop whusky?” he asked.
Archie leaned forward, raising one hand to his ear. “Was it an angel that spoke?” he asked. “Really, uncle, if you startle me like that, I may have to agree with the doctors, after all.”
The whisky was ordered, and old Jeremiah watched his graceless nephew's appreciation of the “auld peet rick” with obvious envy. Presently said he:
“Now, list to me, ye sassenach. Y'are full o' sinful pride because ye think ye have trimmed an auld man on a business deal. But ye must perceive there's twa sides to the story. Now that I see ye have a bit o' your faither's cheap commercial abeelity, I am minded to cut ye oot o' my will. I might e'en leave ye yon silly daubs. What would ye be sayin' then?”
“I'd say that I'd got nearly three thousand more than I ever expected, uncle,” said Archie cheerfully. “You see,” he added engagingly, “I have never counted on anything from you, because I am painfully aware that you disapprove of my pleasant mode of life. That's the reason we're such good friends.” And he smiled beatifically at the shrunken old invalid. “And now, if you will excuse me, uncle, I will run out and pay some bills.”
“And who are ye goin' to pay?”
“A few decent tradespeople who never dunned me. When I have done that, I will have to look around for a job.”
“And what can ye do, then, besides spendin' other people's money?”
“I might get a job as athletic instructor, or riding master, or chauffeur, or billposter, or something of the sort. One can never tell what talents one may develop under pressure.”
“Your bills can wait,” said the old man. “Show me some of the rubbish ye brought in the van.”
“With pleasure, uncle.” Archie left the room, to return a few minutes later carrying several of his canvases, which he set down face to the wall. Drawing down the shade, he took the first, and put it on a table.
“This, uncle, is a Breton peasant girl bathing in a brook. As a matter of fact, they never do bathe, but I detest realism.”
“One would never guess it! Are ye not ashamed? Losh! Show me another.”
Archie set the picture aside, and presented another masterpiece.
“Here we have some nymphs and satyrs at play. Observe the virginal freshness of the nymphs. This one in the foreground has not got the smallpox; that mottled appearance is due to the shadows of the leaves. And observe the expression of bestiality on the face of the satyr.”
“I obsairve the bestiality of the whole dommed thing. Shame on ye! What is that next—a forest fire?”
“No; that is a study of the Alpenglow in the Bernese Oberland.”
“'Tis a wonder it does not melt the snow. And what is that ye have there, all arms and legs? Some girls in a railroad accident?”
“Wrong again, uncle. That is the Mardi gras carnival at Nice. Do you feel able to stand some more?”
“I do not. Ye have swindled me. Who now could I leave such nastiness to? But I will not say ye have not some trick of the paintin'. Why do ye not turn your hand to signs?”
Archie paused in the act of turning his artistic efforts to the wall, and stared at the old man. His blue eyes opened very wide.
“By George, uncle, I believe you've struck it! Signs—the very thing! I believe I could paint a rattling sign. It's worth looking into. Well, good by, uncle. Signs, by Jove!” And with a little wave of his hand, the young man moved toward the door
But Jeremiah called him back. While disapproving his graceless nephew from the very bottom of his soured, crabbed old heart, he was yet strangely loath to have him go.
“Sit down,” he growled. “I would like some words wi' ye. Help yourself to the whusky. Tell me now, have ye never thought of marryin'?”
“Never when I could help it, uncle.”
“The more shame to ye! If ye had a wife now, 'tis possible I might leave ye a bit, provided the woman was not a fool, which is not likely.”
“Right, uncle. She'd have to be a fool to marry me.”
“I see ye understand yourself. That is always somethin'. I make no secret, Archie, I am bothered what to do with my millions.”
“There is my Cousin David”
“Augh! A cantin', psalm-singin' hypocrite!”
“And there is always charity.”
“Do not try to provoke me. No cent of mine goes to pauperize the masses.”
“Well, then, civic institutions, public parks, a fund for the spiritual enlightenment of the undeserving rich, or a society for the prevention of cruelty to household pests, a whisky fund for indigent alcoholics—really, uncle, there are no end of worthy endowments. You might establish a guild for the promulgation of joy, and make me sole trustee. Do it now. I'm sure we could work splendidly together. All you'd have to do would be to die—though I must say I'm afraid I'd beat you to it.”
“You glory in your iniquity, now, do ye not?”
“I glory in having a good time. But I'm afraid it will be a good while before I sing any more hallelujahs,” said Archie sadly. “Anything more I can do for you, uncle?”
“No. Get out of here. What is it—a girl?”
“I hope so—if she hasn't got tired of waiting.”
“Then off wi' ye, and play the fool. I've had enough o' ye,” growled the old man. And Archie went.