# Ainslee's Magazine/Auld Jeremiah/Chapter 2

from Ainslee's magazine, June 1913, pp. 4–7.

### CHAPTER II.

Old Jeremiah was in his reclining chair by the open window—for the month was June—when a footman entered with a note and a card. Jeremiah glanced at the latter, which was printed, not engraved, and bore the name “Miss Ailsa Graeme.”
Jeremiah grunted. “Ailsa Graeme!” said he to himself. “I wonder now is she any kin to Donald Graeme, of Dernoch?”
For it this Donald was to same Graeme, of Dornoch, that Jeremiah owed his start in life. Donald Graeme had loaned him the money to go to America when a lad of seventeen. It was in Donald's little machine shop on the Firth of Dornoch that Jeremiah had first learned how to forge and weld the glowing steel that was afterward to forge and weld his great fortune.
The money debt had long since been paid, for Jeremiah was scrupulous about his debts, whether of good or ill. But he had always felt that the moral obligation was still unsettled; and if he had not heard that Donald had himself become a rich man, it is probable that he would have remembered him in his will, for no man could say that Donald was shiftless or a fool. It was, therefore, with a throb of interest that Jeremiah opened the letter, to read as follows:
My Dear Jerry: (If I can make bold to call you by the old name, now that you are become a great millionaire.)
It is many years since I penned you a line, and as you can see from this feeble scrawl, my old flipper has not the steadiness it had when it last gripped yours. They tell me you have come to be a rich man and a power in the land. For many years I did none so badly myself, but later on in life, what with strikes and the hard times and family troubles, it has all been taken from me, so that now [I am but a broken old man who must soon leave this sinful world as poor as he came into it.
But it is not about myself that I would write you, doing well enough as I am and content with my wee cottage and my chair before the fire with a pipe and perhaps a nip of the auld peet rick. I write to introduce to you my dear granddaughter, Ailsa, who, as you will see, is as sweet a Hieland lassie as ever you might wish to see, and who must go to the new country to seek her fortune, there being little here but what you know.
The lassie has been the comfort of my declining years, and it grieves me to let her go, as it does her to leave me. But as I have still her Sister Nell I cannot refuse, the more so as Ailsa is a lassie out of the common, both in her attainments, character, and good sound sense. There is none in all our Hieland country can show her aught of housewifely duties nor make a shilling go so far as can her sixpence. She has the education, too, and the arts as well, for did she not paint a picture of the sunset on the purple heather which was sold in the Edinburgh exhibition for ten guineas? Also, she knows the music and can even coax a tune from the pipes.
Now she has gone to America, wishing to better herself as well as to see the world, and—between you and me—perhaps to escape the unwelcome attentions of the young Laird of Oykell, whom I am thinking she would be well away from. So if you can help to find her an opening as governess or the like, you will be doing a favor to your old friend and well-wisher,
Donald Graeme.
Jeremiah laid the letter down, and sat for a moment plunged in meditation. So long he sat with his cavernous old eyes focused on infinity that the manservant shifted his weight to the other foot. Jeremiah settled himself in his chair.
“Ye will show the lady up,” “Here—turn my said he. chair a bit before ye go.
A minute passed. Then from outside the door came that most unprecedented of sounds in Jeremiah's household—the rustle of a gown. “Miss Graeme, sir,” said the footman, and withdrew. The old man looked up, and his deep eyes kindled.
On the threshold stood a girl of twenty, perhaps, with eyes of the clear blue-gray of a Scotch sky, a ruddy coloring that suggested the crisp tang of a sea mist, and a strong, long-limbed, rounded figure that brought back to Jeremiah the girls of his youth. She was straight as the mast of North Sea fishing smack, full of bosom, broad of hip, but supple and long-waisted, with something that suggested the rush of strong, keen air. She wore a plain suit of light-gray tweed, with a straw hat of a color to match her suit, and her heavy auburn hair was held snugly in place by a light veil of gray tulle.
As her eyes met those of Jeremiah, the rich color flooded her face, and she dropped a little curtsy. He noticed that her nose was short and straight, with a slight upward tilt, and that her mouth was wide, with full, red lips slightly inclined to part enough to show a double row of white, even teeth.
“And so y'are Donald's granddaughter?” said Jeremiah. “Come in, my dear, and close the door behind ye.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ailsa, and gave the old man a smile that warmed him more than his rich port. Rather shyly, she took the chair that Jeremiah indicated, sitting well forward, with her gloved fingers interlaced.
“And how is your grandfather?” asked Jeremiah.
“His health is good, thank you kindly, but he is sadly broken in spirit, what with the loss of his fortune and family troubles. You must know, sir, that he has now the bringing up of Uncle Sandy's five children.”
“And who may Uncle Sandy be?”
“Uncle Sandy was grandfather's second son. The wife died when little Donald was born, and not long after Uncle Sandy was drowned in trying to save a man who fell into the water at Inverness. Since then grandfather has had to do for all of us, as my Sister Nell and I are orphans, too. That is one reason for my coming to America.
“And how did your grandfather come to be losin' his fortune?” asked Jeremiah.
“It would take a long time for the telling, sir. There were strikes and higher wages and strong competition and a partner who did not deal honestly by him. Then grandfather was getting old, and after Uncle Sandy was drowned there was nobody at all to take his place. The troubles all came together, sir.”
Ailsa's voice Was rich, rather low in pitch, and her English held a lingering Scotch accent that fell like music on the old man's ear. Her manner was respectful—a trifle shy, perhaps, but quite free of any trace of timidity—and her blue-gray eyes looked frankly into his as she spoke. Jeremiah sighed.
“'Tis the same old story,” said he; “but I am sorry to hear that it should have come to Donald. A fine, braw lad he was, and no man's fool. Aweel—and so ye have come to America to seek your fortune?” His keen old eyes bored into hers. “Tell me, now, have ye never thought o' marryin'?”
The girl's vivid coloring was heightened by a richer flush.
“I have thought more of working, sir,” she answered.
“But y'are still heart free?” asked Jeremiah.
“Oh, yes, sir.” She smiled, and a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “I will not say that if the right man were to come along I might not have him,” said she naîvely. “But it is not for that that I am here.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Y'are a sensible lassie, 'tis plain enough to see,” he observed. “Now, listen to me, Ailsa. I am minded to find ye a husband.”
Ailsa dropped her eyes. “You are very good, sir,” said she; “but, if I might make bold to say so, I would rather you found me some way to earn a little for the grandfather and the children.”
Jeremiah rested his large, shrunken hands on the arms of his chair, and leaned slightly forward. Ailsa, glancing at him, was a little frightened at the expression of his face.
“My dear,” said Jeremiah, “if ye will be guided by me in the choosin' of a husband, ye need have no fear for the grandfather and the children. I see y'are a sensible girl, and I will make no bones of the business. I have a nephew to whom I am thinkin' of leavin' the bulk of my fortune—a matter of some four million pounds. Mind ye, now, four million pounds is not to be sneezed at. But without he is married to a good, sensible woman—like yourself, for instance—he would soon play ducks and drakes with it, and I am in no mind to see the wealth I have toiled and slaved for thrown here and yon to the parasites that hang always on the heels of a rich man.
“I am old, my child, and my success in life has come from the gift I have for understandin' the people with whom I have had to deal. I have talked to ye but five minutes by the clock, but I know ye well, and that you would make a fine wife for the lad. Now, what do you say?”
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes bright, and a faint flush on his sunken cheeks. Ailsa was staring at him with wide eyes and a pale, almost frightened, face. But the Scotch girl was not to be dismayed.
“God bless you, sir!” she answered. “But I have never seen the gentleman, nor he me. No doubt he would have none of me.”
“If he wouldn't,” snapped Jeremiah, “he is a fool, and can scratch for himsel', I will do nothin' for him.”
Ailsa was silent for a moment. The high color came back to her cheeks, and she seemed to be struggling to repress a smile, succeeding in all but the telltale dimple at the corner of her demure mouth.
“And what is he like?” she managed to ask.
Old Jeremiah gave his bleak, twisted smile.
“I see y'are no fool,” said he, with as much approval in his voice as it was possible for it to carry of so unaccustomed a tone. “Well, then, he is some inches taller than yoursel', broad of shoulder, and big of chest, and I have never seen his face when it did not wear a grin. His hair is black, and his eyes are blue, and as for nose and teeth and arms and legs and all, he has his share. The women like him, I am told; and so did the men until he began to borrow money. Now they will have none of him, and they are right, for has he not just gone through somethin' like half a million dollars left him by his father, who was a fool?”
“And does he drink?”
Jeremiah chuckled. “I like ye more and more,” said he. “To be sure, he drinks; but that is not his failin'. I have never heard of his bein' drunk.”
“And what is his failing' then, sir?” Ailsa's eyes were bright with interest.
“He paints. Naked women and the like. But 'twould not be hard for ye to break him of that. He is also a vagabone, trailin' all over the world with no reason but to be on the move. He has never done a day's work in his life, and I misdoubt he ever will. Ye see, lassie, I am givin' ye his faults, because at this minute I cannot recall any of his virtues. I doubt he has any.”
Ailsa dropped her flushed face in her hands, and her shoulders shook with the laughter she could no longer contain. Old Jeremiah regarded her well-shaped arms with approval, and the wry, twisted grin remained on his shrewd, thin mouth.
“Y'are amused?” said he.
She raised her flushed face. Her eyes were misty with mirth.
“Indeed, I do not know if I am most amused or ashamed, sir,” she answered. “And so 'tis your idea to give him the money to marry me? I have never heard the like. Could you not think now of one good trait he has, poor man?” She gave another rippling little laugh. “Can't he paint?”
“He cannot.”
“Perhaps he is kind of heart?”
“That is a weakness for a man who must make his way in the world. He has it. I mind one day he came in here with a cur that he had picked up on the street, and gave my butler five dollars to care for the beast. It is here yet. I kept it, as it was good at the rat catchin'. You see, my dear, I am givin' the devil his due. I will not go so far as to say that there may not be good qualities to the lad which a proper wife might develop.”
Ailsa looked at him thoughtfully.
“Was there ever the like?” said she. “But you must know, Mr. Wishart, that it is quite impossible he should care for me——”
“And why? Y'are a fine, sensible girl, and no so bad to look at. Besides, there is the four million pounds twenty million dollars in sound securities. Many a man has tumbled head over heels in love for less.”
“But I am only a Scotch country girl of the middle class, who has seen nothing of the world, barring only Edinburgh, where I had my education. He would look down upon me. And, besides, I might not like him.”
“Aweel,” said Jeremiah, a little testily, “ye will have a chance to find out. I will have ye both here for luncheon with me to-morrow at one. Where are ye stoppin', and how are ye fixed for siller?”
“I am stopping with a relative who lives in Brooklyn. She met me at the steamer. I came from Glasgow on the Anchoria the day before yesterday. And as for money, I have enough to last until I find a place as governess or teacher. You would not be knowing of any opening, sir?”
Jeremiah frowned. “And what is the matter with the openin' I have proposed to ye?” he asked. “However, we will talk of that later. I am tired now, my dear.” He turned to her, and she saw that his face was pale and haggard. “Ye must know that I have not much longer here”—he raised his hand as she opened her lips—“and before I go I wish to see Archie settled in life. So you will leave me now, and come here to-morrow for luncheon at one.”
Ailsa rose. “You will not tell him, will you?” she asked.
“Not until after you are gone to-morrow. Once you have met, you must decide for yourselves. I wash my hands of the business. You will have my offer to take or leave as seems good to you.”
Ailsa wished him good-by, when Jeremiah touched his bell, and the footman came to show her out.