E-text prepared by MRK
THE HALF-HEARTED
by
JOHN BUCHAN
NOTE
For the convenience of the reader it maybe stated that the period of this tale is theclosing years of the 19th Century.
CONTENTS
PART I
I. EVENING IN GLENAVELIN II. LADY MANORWATER'S GUESTS III. UPLAND WATER IV. AFTERNOON IN A GARDEN V. A CONFERENCE OF THE POWERS VI. PASTORAL VII. THE MAKERS OF EMPIRE VIII. MR. WRATISLAW'S ADVENT IX. THE EPISODES OF A DAY X. HOME TRUTHS XI. THE PRIDE BEFORE A FALL XII. PASTORAL AND TRAGEDY XIII. THE PLEASURES OF A CONSCIENCE XIV. A GENTLEMAN IN STRAITS XV. THE NEMESIS OF A COWARD XVI. A MOVEMENT OF THE POWERS XVII. THE BRINK OF THE RUBICON XVIII. THE FURTHER BRINK XIX. THE BRIDGE OF BROKEN HEARTS
PART II
XX. THE EASTERN ROAD XXI. IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS XXII. THE OUTPOSTS XXIII. THE DINNER AT GALETTI'S XXIV. THE TACTICS OP A CHIEF XXV. MRS. LOGAN'S BALL XXVI. FRIEND TO FRIEND XXVII. THE ROAD TO FORZA XXVIII. THE HILL-FORT XXIX. THE WAY TO NAZRI XXX. EVENING IN THE HILLS XXXI. EVENTS SOUTH OF THE BORDER XXXII. THE BLESSING OF GAD
THE HALF-HEARTED
PART I
CHAPTER I
EVENING IN GLENAVELIN
From the heart of a great hill land Glenavelin stretches west and southto the wider Gled valley, where its stream joins with the greater waterin its seaward course. Its head is far inland in a place of mountainsolitudes, but its mouth is all but on the lip of the sea, and saltbreezes fight with the flying winds of the hills. It is a land of greenmeadows on the brink of heather, of far-stretching fir woods that climbto the edge of the uplands and sink to the fringe of corn. Nowhere isthere any march between art and nature, for the place is in the main forsheep, and the single road which threads the glen is little troubledwith cart and crop-laden wagon. Midway there is a stretch of wood andgarden around the House of Glenavelin, the one great dwelling-place inthe vale. But it is a dwelling and a little more, for the home of thereal lords of the land is many miles farther up the stream, in themoorland house of Etterick, where the Avelin is a burn, and the hillshang sharply over its source. To a stranger in an afternoon it seems avery vale of content, basking in sun and shadow, green, deep, andsilent. But it is also a place of storms, for its name means the "glenof white waters," and mist and snow are commoner in its confines thansummer heats.
On a very wet evening in June a young man in a high dogcart was drivingup the glen. A deer-stalker's cap was tied down over his ears, and thecollar of a great white waterproof defended his neck. A cheerfulbronzed face was shadowed by the peak of his cap, and two very keen greyeyes peered out into the mist. He was driving with tight rein, for themare was fresh and the road had awkward slopes and corners; but none theless he was dreaming, thinking pleasant thoughts, and now and thenlooking cheerily at the ribs of hill which at times were cleared ofmist. His clean-shaven face was wet and shining with the drizzle, poolsformed on the floor of the cart, and the mare's flanks were plasteredwith the weather.
Suddenly he drew up sharp at the sight of a figure by the roadside.
"Hullo, Doctor Gracey," he cried, "where on earth have you come from?Come in and I'll give you a lift."
The figure advanced and scrambled into the vacant seat. It was a littleold man in a big topcoat with a quaint-fashioned wide-awake hat on hishead. In ill weather all distinctions are swept away. The strangermight have been a statesman or a tramp.
"It is a pleasure to see you, Doctor," and the young man grasped amittened hand and looked into his companion's face. There was somethingboth kindly and mirthful in his grey eyes.
The old man arranged his seat comfortably, buttoned another button atthe neck of the coat, and then scrutinised the driver. "It's fouryears--four years in October since I last cast eyes on you, Lewie, myboy," he said. "I heard you were coming, so I refused a lift fromHaystounslacks and the minister. Haystounslacks was driving fromGledsmuir, and unless the Lord protects him he will be in Avelin waterere he gets home. Whisky and a Glenavelin road never agree, Lewie, as Iwho have mended the fool's head a dozen times should know. But Ithought you would never come, and was prepared to ride in the nextbaker's van." The Doctor spoke with the pure English and high northernvoice of an old school of professional men, whose tongue, save intelling a story, knew not the vernacular, and yet in its pitch andaccent inevitably betrayed their birthplace. Precise in speech anddress, uncommonly skilful, a mild humorist, and old in the world'swisdom, he had gone down the evening way of life with the heart of aboy.
"I was delayed--I could not help it, though I was all afternoon at thejob," said the young man. "I've seen a dozen and more tenants and Italked sheep and drains till I got out of my depth and was gravelycorrected. It's the most hospitable place on earth, this, but I thoughtit a pity to waste a really fine hunger on the inevitable ham and eggs,so I waited for dinner. Lord, I have an appetite! Come and dine,Doctor. I am in solitary state just now, and long, wet evenings aredreary."
"I'm afraid I must excuse myself, Lewie," was the formal answer, withjust a touch of reproof. Dinner to Doctor Gracey was a seriousceremony, and invitations should not be scattered rashly. "Myhousekeeper's wrath is not to be trifled with, as you should know."
"I do," said the young man in a tone of decent melancholy. "She oncecuffed my ears the month I stayed with you for falling in the burn.Does she beat you, Doctor?"
"Indeed, no," said the little old gentleman; "not as yet. Butphysically she is my superior and I live in terror." Then abruptly, "Forheaven's sake, Lewie, mind the mare."
"It's all right," said the driver, as the dogcart swung neatly round anugly turn. "There's the mist going off the top of Etterick Law,and--why, that's the end of the Dreichill?"
"It's the Dreichill, and beyond it is the Little Muneraw. Are you gladto be home, Lewie?"
"Rather," said the young man gravely. "This is my own countryside, andI fancy it's the last place a man forgets."
"I fancy so--with right-thinking people. By the way, I have much tocongratulate you on. We old fogies in this desert place have been oftenseeing your name in the newspapers lately. You are a most experiencedtraveller."
"Fair. But people made a great deal more of that than it deserved. Itwas very simple, and I had every chance. Some day I will go out and dothe same thing again with no advantages, and if I come back you maypraise me then."
"Right, Lewie. A bare game and no chances is the rule of war. And now,what will you do?"
"Settle down," said the young man with mock pathos, "which in my casemeans settling up also. I suppose it is what you would call the crucialmoment in my life. I am going in for politics, as I always intended,and for the rest I shall live a quiet country life at Etterick. I've awonderful talent for rusticity."
The Doctor shot an inquiring glance from beneath the flaps of his hat."I never can make up my mind about you, Lewie."
"I daresay not. It is long since I gave up trying to make up my mindabout myself."
"When you were a very small and very bad boy I made the usual prophecythat you would make a spoon or spoil a horn. Later I declared you wouldmake the spoon. I still keep to that opinion, but I wish to goodness Iknew what shape your spoon would take."
"Ornamental, Doctor, some odd fancy spoon, but not useful. I feel aninner lack of usefulness."
"Humph! Then things are serious, Lewie, and I, as your elder, shouldgive advice; but confound it, my dear, I cannot think what it should be.Life has been too easy for you, a great deal too easy. You want alittle of the salt and iron of the world. You are too clever ever to beconceited, and you are too good a fellow ever to be a fool, but apartfrom these sad alternatives there are numerous middle st
ages which arenot very happy."
The young man's face lengthened, as it always did either in repose orreflection.
"You are old and wise, Doctor. Have you any cure for a man withsufficient money and no immediate profession to prevent stagnation?"
"None," said the Doctor; "but the man himself can find many. The chiefis that he be conscious of his danger, and on the watch against it. Asa last expedient I should recommend a second course of travel."
"But am I to be barred from my home because of this bogey of yours?"
"No, Lewie lad, but you must be kept, as you say, 'up to scratch,'" andthe old face smiled. "You are too good to waste. You Haystouns arehigh-strung, finicking people, on whom idleness sits badly. Also youare the last of your race and have responsibilities. You must rememberI was your father's friend, and knew you all well."
At the mention of his father the young man's interest quickened.
"I must have been only about six years old when he died. I find so fewpeople who remember him well and can tell me about him."
"You are very like him, Lewie. He began nearly as well as you; but hesettled down into a quiet life, which was the very thing for which hewas least fitted. I do not know if he had altogether a happy time. Helost interest in things, and grew shy and rather irritable. Hequarrelled with most of his neighbours, and got into a trick ofmagnifying little troubles till he shrank from the slightestdiscomfort."
"And my mother?"
"Ah, your mother was different--a cheery, brave woman. While she livedshe kept him in some measure of self-confidence, but you know she diedat your birth, Lewie, and after that he grew morose and retiring. Ispeak about these things from the point of view of my profession, and Ifancy it is the special disease which lies in your blood. You have allbeen over-cultured and enervated; as I say, you want some of the saltand iron of life."
The young man's brow was furrowed in a deep frown which in no way brokethe good-humour of his face. They were nearing a cluster of houses, thelast clachan of sorts in the glen, where a kirk steeple in a grove oftrees proclaimed civilization. A shepherd passed them with a couple ofdogs, striding with masterful step towards home and comfort. The cheeryglow of firelight from the windows pleased both men as they were whirledthrough the raw weather.
"There, you see," said the Doctor, nodding his head towards theretreating figure; "there's a man who in his own way knows the secret oflife. Most of his days are spent in dreary, monotonous toil. He is forever wrestling with the weather and getting scorched and frozen, and theresult is that the sparse enjoyments of his life are relished with arare gusto. He sucks his pipe of an evening with a zest which the manwho lies on his back all day smoking knows nothing about. So, too, thelabourer who hoes turnips for one and sixpence the day. They know thearduousness of life, which is a lesson we must all learn sooner orlater. You people who have been coddled and petted must learn it, too;and for you it is harder to learn, but pleasanter in the learning,because you stand above the bare need of things, and have leisure forthe adornments. We must all be fighters and strugglers, Lewie, and itis better to wear out than to rust out. It is bad to let choice thingsbecome easily familiar; for, you know, familiarity is apt to beget aproverbial offspring."
The young man had listened attentively, but suddenly he leaned from theseat and with a dexterous twitch of his whip curled it round the leg ofa boy of sixteen who stood before a cottage.
"Hullo, Jock," he cried. "When are you coming up to see me? Bring yourbrother some day and we'll go and fish the Midburn." The urchin pulledoff a ragged cap and grinned with pleasure.
"That's the boy you pulled out of the Avelin?" asked the Doctor. "I hadheard of that performance. It was a good introduction to yourhome-coming."
"It was nothing," said the young man, flushing slightly. "I wascrossing the ford and the stream was up a bit. The boy was fishing,wading pretty deep, and in turning round to stare at me he slipped andwas carried down. I merely rode my horse out and collared him. Therewas no danger."
"And the Black Linn just below," said the Doctor, incredulously. "Youhave got the usual modesty of the brave man, Lewie."
"It was a very small thing. My horse knew its business--that was all."And he flicked nervously with the whip.
A grey house among trees rose on the left with a quaint gateway ofunhewn stone. The dogcart pulled up, and the Doctor scrambled down andstood shaking the rain from his hat and collar. He watched the youngman till, with a skilful turn, he had entered Etterick gates, and thenwith a more meditative face than is usual in a hungry man he wentthrough the trees to his own dwelling.