CHAPTER XI.
Old Jeremiah stared drearily through his open window. He had sufficiently gained in strength and in the consciousness of a possible motility to begin to chafe at the confinement that obliged him to sit day after day and stare at the drab walls of the shuttered houses opposite.
Jeremiah was bored and unhappy. He was bored because a devitalizing heat was on the city, which appeared to have suspended all animation as it lay grilling in the August sun; and, although the old man did not object to the high temperature, he found his outlook depressingly dull. He thought to himself that he would be glad when they began to rebuild on the vacant plot opposite, as then he would have a spectacle of life and motion. Besides, the jaundiced tint of the green fence was an eyesore to one who looked daily in the mirror at a somewhat similar hue.
Jeremiah was also unhappy. His conscience, which for many years had been the mere relict of an atrophied organ, like the vermiform appendix, seemed lately to be on the point of functioning again. Strange qualms were beginning to germinate in the kernel of this hard old nut, who had been for many years the direct and voluntary cause of many an act of present-day piracy. Jeremiah was beginning to think that perhaps he had not dealt well with his nephew, Archie, and the granddaughter of an old and loyal friend.
After all, reflected Jeremiah, cogitating along the lines of thought of Epictetus, what a man does not want, he has—or as good as has—for the simple reason that he does not want it. Archie did not want his twenty millions; ergo, Archie was a multimillionaire, and as such deserving of respect. Archie did not want a wife; therefore he had one, and a very convenient one, who would cause him neither trouble nor expense. Archie might not be such a fool, after all, and he was certainly good company, and Jeremiah missed his breezy, nervy society. Besides, if you called him a fool, he took it in good part. Other men grew either sulky or apologetic. Archie was neither, which went again to prove that he might not be such a fool, after all, on the Socratean theory this time.
With two such backers as Epictetus and Socrates, Jeremiah was disposed to reconsider his appraisal of Archie—the more so as he had recently been seeing a good deal of David, who came in almost daily to complain about (1) the enormous number of Airedale terriers in the United States, (2) the surpassing ignorance of canine knowledge exhibited by the masses, which claimed for an Airedale anything from a Mexican hairless dog to a brindled Siberian mousehound. And all of them answered to the name of Mac.
Jeremiah was turning these things in his mind, for lack of better, when, happening to glance down into that shimmering hot-air conduit known as the street, he saw approaching on the other side a stalwart man in painter's blouse, carrying a light stepladder on his shoulder and a large assortment of pots and brushes suspended from different parts of his anatomy. Under his arm was what appeared to be a canvas on its frame.
The man approached briskly, and with apparent indifference to the heat. Opposite the fence of bilious hue he stopped, set down his paint pots, and assembled his ladder.
“Now, what have we here?” said Jeremiah to himself. “Has the gowk the impidence to be painting one of his dirty signs before our very noses? I will soon put a stop to that.”
He reached for his bell, but before actually touching it he stopped. After all, why interfere? The fence could be no more objectionable than it already was, while the process of painting might afford him some diversion. Jeremiah settled himself in his chair, and awaited developments.
The painter went about his job in a quick, methodical manner that rather appealed to Jeremiah. He measured the fence, and marked the limits of his field, which, by means of a crayon and a straightedge, he divided into many little squares. Then, consulting his canvas, he began to draw in his design. In an incredibly short time he had worked up an outlined sketch of the front of what appeared to be an inn, some figures, a background of hills, and what looked like a river in the left middle distance.
The work proceeded rapidly, while Jeremiah watched with a fascinated interest. Passers-by also paused to look on, but the painter was working in the full blaze of the afternoon sun, and they did not linger long.
“Yon paint slinger knows his business,” said Jeremiah to himself. “Now, where the de'il have I seen a place like that?”
As the work proceeded, this query bothered him with growing force. There was something about the position of the house, the contour of the distant hills, the location of the sheet of water, that jarred into activity cells long dormant in Jeremiah's brain.
The composition was strangely familiar, yet impressed him as something long forgotten, almost of some other world. Try as he would, it was impossible for him to place it, and when finally it grew late, and the sign painter began to gather up his things, Jeremiah was half tempted to send his footman across the street to ask the man where the place was.
That evening found Jeremiah in such a cheerful frame of mind as to arouse much speculation downstairs. The footman was of the opinion that the old man had learned of the collapse of some financial enemy, or possibly of the death of a friend or relative; whereas the chef took unto himself the glory, maintaining that the change was due to the doctor's having eased up on Jeremiah's rigorous diet, thus giving that best of doctors, the cook, an opportunity to effect a cure. But the butler, unable longer to preserve his pledge of secrecy, finally demonstrated that both explanations were in error.
“It's Mr. Archie 'as done it,” said he oracularly, “a-pyntin' of that there sign acrost the street.”
“A-paintin' a sign—Mr. Archie!” cried the footman.
“There you 'ave it. Mr. Archie 'as took to sign pyntin'. It's not for me to s'y whether 'e done it to spite the marster or maybe to soften 'is 'eart at seein' 'is hown nephew brought to such strytes, but any'ow Mr. Archie is a-pyntin' of that bloomin' big sign acrost the street. And, wot's more, 'e's doin' a good job of it, I must s'y.”
As a matter of fact, they were all wrong. Jeremiah had not recognized his nephew. Archie had been careful not to look up toward the window after the first swift glance, which told him that Jeremiah was there. Also, he had let his mustache grow, and what with his cap and blouse, would scarcely have been recognizable to Jeremiah even at close range. The old man was cheered because, for the first time in many days, he had passed the afternoon without being bored.
He had enjoyed watching the painter at his work, as any one may understand who has passed a long and monotonous convalescence unassisted by any active interest. To such an unfortunate, the most trivial of incidents becomes a boon, which is perhaps one reason why the public-ward patients of a hospital preserve a better mental tone than the occupants of private rooms. To Jeremiah there was also the added interest of the mystery, which: he felt sure the following day would solve.
It was, therefore, with a really pathetic anticipation that he was wheeled to the window the following morning. The sign painter had apparently been at work for some hours; but, as Jeremiah immediately discovered, he had confined himself to the figures in the foreground, letting the rest of his picture wait.
Yet herein lay the clew, for it needed but one glance at the whiskered, kilted old fellows before the inn to bring back the whole scene to the lonely invalid, peering from his window like some old sea eagle in his aerie on the cliffs of the North Sea. Jeremiah slapped his knee with his withered old hand.
“'Tis Bonar!” he rasped, so sharply that the footman jumped. “The auld public house by the Bonar Bridge! Aweel, aweel!”
“Beg pardon, sir?” said the footman.
“Ye will get me my field glasses,” said Jeremiah gruffly.
The glasses were brought, and Jeremiah raised them to his eyes with hands that shook a little.
“The auld goodman wi' the sandy whuskers is the livin' image o' Wully McRae,” muttered Jeremiah. “He was a Bonar man. The ither one I dinna ken. But the lass—now, where have I seen yon lass?”
He laid down his glasses, and, reaching for his handkerchief, furtively wiped his eyes, which seemed for the moment to have grown strangely dim.
“'Tis the old age,” growled Jeremiah, and picked up the glasses again. “The lass Hoots! Is it not Ailsa Graeme?”
His jaw dropped, and the glasses all but fell from his palsied hand. but he did not need them now, for there could no longer be any doubt. It was Ailsa's fresh, smiling face, and Ailsa's tall, supple figure that the sign painter had depicted on his board. Jeremiah gasped, and one hand went to his skinny throat. Was he the victim of hallucination:
“Now who can the body be?” he whispered to himself, “who kens Ailsa and kens auld Wally and he with the hole still in his plaid as true as life? I mind how he was ever sayin': 'A drap whusky for the hole in my plaid.' But it canna be Wully; he'd be in the kirkyaird long syne. Aweel, aweel yon”
He focused his glass upon the painter, but the man kept his back persistently turned. Having worked in the figures to his satisfaction, he turned to the distant hills, over which there began to diffuse itself, under the swift strokes of his brush, a soft, purple glow.
“The heather!” cried Jeremiah. “The bonny, bonny heather!”
Again there came into his sunken eyes such a dimness as might be produced in those of one facing a heavy Scotch mist. Something long frozen at the core of the old man seemed to soften and melt. His throat contracted—and yet he was conscious of a warm, soft glow such as he had not felt for many years. He dabbed his eyes again, and fixed his gaze upon the picture, hungrily watching every stroke of the swift brush.
Others were watching also—a group of passers-by whose gestures made it evident that the sign was receiving all the consideration it deserved by its very real merit. Presently the big policeman of the beat came sauntering along, and joined the knot of admirers. He spoke to the artist, who turned his chin on his shoulder, and stopped painting for a moment to reply.
Jeremiah could not hear what was being said, but it was evident from the little sideways ducking motions of the big officer's head that his remarks were of an appreciative quality. The artist smiled, and resumed his work, while Patrolman Kelly hooked his thumbs in his belt, and stood with his feet apart and his head cocked on one side, the picture of approving artistic criticism.
“Whoever the man may be, he has the paintin',” said Jeremiah to himself. “Now, if Archie could only have done the like, instead of his shamefu' naked wenches! I would like to have a look at yon lad. Belike he is no so long from Dornoch or Inverness.”
He raised his glasses, and at that moment the painter turned, and, as if under the influence of some magnetic attraction, raised his face squarely up toward the window, squarely into the field of Jeremiah's excellent lenses; it was almost as if he had thrust his head up over the window sill. From Jeremiah's throat there came a strangling, gurgling sound.
“Archie!” he cackled shrilly. The glasses fell from his hands, fortunately to land on the cushion at his feet. Jeremiah leaned back, shaken and giddy.
“Archie!” he muttered. “'Tis the lad himsel'!”
For several minutes he sat pale and still, fumbling at his senile lips with his long, thin fingers. Then slowly the tinge of color returned to his shrunken cheeks. He touched his bell.
“Ye will tell the chef to get luncheon for two,” said he; “and ye will cross the street and say to Mr. Loveday, who is paintin' yon sign, that I will be expectin' him here at twelve-thirty. Ye will say to him that he is to come just as he is.”
“Very good, sir,” said the footman, and left the room.
Jeremiah watched him as he crossed the street and delivered the message in Archie's ear. He saw Archie nod, then glance up to the window with his old familiar smile. Jeremiah barely resisted an answering nod, then sat with mumbling lips and hands that trembled on the arms of his chair.
But this emotion soon passed, and Jeremiah found himself watching the progress of the picture with a renewed interest. It is probable that his value as an art critic was about on a par with that of Patrolman Kelly, but in any case the old man was convinced that here before him was a piece of work as pleasing to his eye as any he had ever seen in any gallery or exhibition,
There was, indeed, about Archie's painting, with all its faults, a certain quality of warmth and brightness that may have been the reflection of his own cheerful nature. He painted things as he usually saw them—through rose-tinted spectacles—and the result was invariably pleasing.
The two old Highland shepherds joking the pretty barmaid over their glasses may not have been strictly true to life, but they were at least as one would like to see them. The girl, well in the foreground, was really charming, with her heavy hair of burnished copper, her bright, rosy face, her bare, round forearms, and trim ankles; and the first thought that would occur to the average passer-by would invariably be: “I'd like to strike that inn.”
At twenty minutes past twelve the painter folded up his ladder, gathered together his apparatus, and crossed the street, entering the house by the basement door. The small but appreciative audience dispersed, and Jeremiah settled himself in his chair and waited. Several minutes passed; then there came a brisk footstep outside the door, and a cheery voice cried blithely:
“Good morning, Uncle Jerry! Mighty good of you to ask up a poor devil of a sign painter.” He stepped to the side of the old man, and regarded him with an expression of surprise and pleasure. “My word, but you're looking brisk! You see, I was right; these fool doctors don't know it all. Never patronize 'em myself.”
Jeremiah gave him a bleak look from under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Sit down,” said he. “Have you got the paint off ye?”
“Yes—and borrowed a coat from Martin.”
“So this is your way of spitin' your relations—paintin' signs on the streets?”
“Not a bit of it. That's my way of earning my living. Only way that was open, in fact. Besides, I don't expect to work in town. This is just a small contract. I paint out along the railroad tracks, and my name is Joshua Reynolds Jones.”
“Will ye have a drop o' whusky?”
“No, thanks, Uncle Jerry. I promote the sale of whisky in a different way now that I'm a workingman.”
“And how may that be?”
Archie jerked his head toward the sign across the street.
“That's a whisky ad. Got to plaster it with letters as soon as the picture's finished.”
“What!” cried Jeremiah, leaning forward. “Y'are goin' to spoil it with letterin'? Not that there is much to spoil,” he added, remembering himself.
“Seems a pity, doesn't it? But, you see, Uncle Jerry, there's art for art's sake, and art for the artist's sake. This is art for whisky's sake. Your old brand—'auld peet rick.'”
Jeremiah grunted. “And how long have ye been workin' at the sign paintin'?” he asked.
“Ever since our last sad parting.”
“And how much will ye be earnin' now?”
“Two hundred a month, or thereabouts.”
“Hoots! They overpay ye. And can ye live on that?”
“I've saved two-thirds of it.”
Jeremiah eyed him keenly. It occurred to the old man that here was a very different man from the flippant idler whom he had driven from his house. Archie's skin was clear and fine beneath its tan. He had grown heavier, and his eyes were keen and bright, and showed beneath them none of the former lines of dissipation. The crisp mustache gave him a manlier, less adolescent, look. Also, his face appeared to have acquired a certain sternness, and his smile was less mocking and more genuine, flashing out suddenly, to disappear as quickly.
“Then ye have never regretted the refusin' of my offer?”
“No, sir. What's become of the young lady?”
“I hear she is gettin' on. Teachin' or the like. Here is your food. I suppose ye do not get much canvasback and terrapin these days?”
“No; I usually put up at farmhouses. Have to worry along on fresh eggs and buttermilk and roast chicken and trout and hot biscuits and honey and waffles, homemade pastry, and”
“Hold your tongue! And do they cook them well?”
“You never tasted the like. I stopped not long ago with a Scotch family. The guidwife gave me scones and stewed eels with a lump of pork”
“I tell ye to stop it! And how were the eels?”
“Melt in your mouth. And the scones were like the ones you get at Dornoch—crisp and dry and”
“That will do for ye! Y'are talkin' to an invalid.”
“You'd soon be tucking them away, Uncle Jerry, if only you'd chuck your doctors, and get out in the good air. Why don't you take a run across to the old country? You'll be able to travel in a few days.”
“I am thinkin' of it. I am minded to leave my fortune there.”
“Well, no doubt they need it more than we do.”
“Who are ye workin' for?”
“The Town & Country Sign Painting Company, of this city.”
“H'm! And so y'are goin' to plaster yon sign with letterin'? H'm!” Jeremiah grew pensive.
Archie applied himself to the excellent luncheon with an appetite that came not of alcoholic stimulation, but of honest toil. Jeremiah watched him from under his beetling brows, occasionally glancing through the window at the nearly finished sign. Occasionally he grunted. Archie's remarks were random and infrequent. Having finished his meal, he glanced at his watch, then looked rather doubtfully at Jeremiah.
“I say, Uncle Jerry,” said he, “you don't happen to want your portrait painted, do you?”
“By you? Thank ye kindly. I have a large and expensive collection of Lovedays.”
“Oh, I wouldn't tackle it. My specialty is signs. But I've got a friend that's a wonder. She's the coming portraitiste, and her prices are reasonable.”
“A woman, is it?”
“A young Scotch girl. You ought to have your portrait done, really. Hang it in some board room, or leave it to some”
“Ye have worked that once. Have done with ye.”
Archie chuckled into his coffee cup. Had he been looking at Jeremiah, he might have observed that wry, twisted expression that came rarely when the old man's startled features were forced protestingly into a grin.
“Well, Uncle Jerry, I must be getting back on the job.” He turned to the old man with a smile. “Many thanks for the hospitality. Saves me a quarter and a walk to Third Avenue. What time did you say for me to tell my artist friend to call?”
And then he received the surprise of his life, for Jeremiah answered quietly:
“At two o'clock to-morrow. Good day to ye.”