by John Buchan
But the man sat still till the last light had gone and the mist came up from the sea.
CHAPTER XXIII. In the Nature of a Postscript.
The patient scribe who has chronicled this tale has employed his leisure in seeking for further news of the two who figure chiefly. Nor has his zeal been unrewarded. Among the Manorwater family-papers he had access to the letters of that Countess of Manorwater who when left a young widow married the Duke of Sanctamund, and cut something of a figure in the Regency days. Her ladyship was famous for her wit and her odd prettiness. She was of the school of Sensibility, and, it is recorded, made pilgrimages to the grave of Rousseau. She was famed too in polite circles in Paris in the early days after the Terror, and through her kinship to the De Noailles claimed all the virtues of the old régime. But in the midst of her gossipy epistles there is one little letter in which she tells her dear friend, Emily Norton, of a visit to Arras and an hour spent in the graveyard of the convent of St. Thérèse.
“. . . Yesterday, ma chère, was a heavenly day, blue with white clouds sailing above, and all the place was green with the tender spring of this climate. I found the graveyard, which is hidden away among cloistral grey walls, but kept trim by the piety of the Sisters. After much searching I came on a little stone, much grown about with white roses, and on it the simple letter M, and the words, ‘Pro sua patria.’ It was indeed the tomb of my unfortunate kinswoman. I confess, my dear Emily, that I could not look on it without a tear. Here in this green place lay my brave Margaret — la Marguerite des Marguerites — whose name as a little girl I used to worship. People say she went far from the paths of virtue, that she used her beauty and her talents unscrupulously for a foolish cause, but I cannot believe it. Here the memory of her gentleness and goodness is still fresh, and the old sisters have much to tell of la belle Écossaise. Well-a-day, we cannot judge; at any rate she has got peace; and I confess I wept to think that even in her death she remembered her own land and asked that the white Jacobite rose might be set above her grave.... I fear I can write no more at present. The emotions of the day have discomposed me, and I go to bed. In three days we return to England, and till then with eternal love believe me your ever-affectionate
“Victoria Manorwater.”
On the other hand the writer has searched the excellent series of monographs on the Fife burghs for traces of Mr. Francis. There he was unsuccessful, but in a series of papers contributed by a former provost of Dysart to that most enterprising sheet, “The Fife Journal and Herald of the Kingdom,” and composed from the town papers, he has found something of interest.
“. . . In our list of talented townsmen of a former time, none should be more highly esteemed than Francis Birkenshaw, who succeeded John Henryson as Provost of the burgh. He was a writer, having succeeded to the business of Gregor Shillinglaw (for whom see last number). There were always queer stories in the town anent him, for he was a wild lad in his youth and disappeared unaccountably during the Rebellion, returning much graver and wiser, which gave colour to a belief that he had seen service with one or the other side. Nevertheless, he soon acquired a responsible position in the place, and as head of a flourishing business, was elected Provost in the year 1765. He introduced many reforms, particularly a system of town pumps where the burgesses could get clear water, their former source having been invaded by the sea. His portrait hangs in the Town-house, and shows a grey-haired, hard-faced man, with cold, unfriendly-looking eyes. This indeed seems to have been his character, for he rarely graced the social board, but lived unmarried and utterly by himself, finding all his interest in his work and the town-affairs. He died at the early age of fifty-two, leaving the business to his head-clerk, and his fortune — which was considerable — to the burgh.”
THE END
THE HALF-HEARTED
Published in 1900, this novel was heavily influenced by Buchan’s study of Greek tragedy. It is a haunting, heartbreaking tale of romance and duty, where the social expectations of the main characters shape the paths they tread.
Buchan had his first portrait painted in 1900 by a young Sholto Johnstone Douglas.
CONTENTS
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
PART 2
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
NOTE
For the convenience of the reader it may be stated that the period of this tale is the closing years of the 19th Century.
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
EVENING IN GLENAVELIN
From the heart of a great hill land Glenavelin stretches west and south to the wider Gled valley, where its stream joins with the greater water in its seaward course. Its head is far inland in a place of mountain solitudes, but its mouth is all but on the lip of the sea, and salt breezes fight with the flying winds of the hills. It is a land of green meadows on the brink of heather, of far-stretching fir woods that climb to the edge of the uplands and sink to the fringe of corn. Nowhere is there any march between art and nature, for the place is in the main for sheep, and the single road which threads the glen is little troubled with cart and crop-laden wagon. Midway there is a stretch of wood and garden around the House of Glenavelin, the one great dwelling-place in the vale. But it is a dwelling and a little more, for the home of the real lords of the land is many miles farther up the stream, in the moorland house of Etterick, where the Avelin is a burn, and the hills hang sharply over its source. To a stranger in an afternoon it seems a very vale of content, basking in sun and shadow, green, deep, and silent. But it is also a place of storms, for its name means the “glen of white waters,” and mist and snow are commoner in its confines than summer heats.
On a very wet evening in June a young man in a high dogcart was driving up the glen. A deer-stalker’s cap was tied down over his ears, and the collar of a great white waterproof defended his neck. A cheerful bronzed face was shadowed by the peak of his cap, and two very keen grey eyes peered out into the mist. He was driving with tight rein, for the mare was fresh and the road had awkward slopes and corners; but none the less he was dreaming, thinking pleasant thoughts, and now and then looking cheerily at the ribs of hill which at times were cleared of mist. His clean-shaven face was wet and shining with the drizzle, pools formed on the floor of the cart, and the mare’s flanks were plastered with 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 little old man in a big topcoat with a quaint-fashioned wide-awake hat on his head. In ill weather all distinctions are swept away. The stranger might have been a statesman or a tramp.
“It is a pleasure to see you, Doctor,” and the young man grasped a mittened hand and looked into his companion’s face. There was something both kindly and mirthful in his grey eyes.
The old man arranged his seat comfortably, buttoned another button at the neck of the coat, and then scrutinised the driver. “It’s four years — four years in October since I last cast eyes on you, Lewie, my boy,” he said. “I heard you were coming, so I refused a lift from Haystounslacks and the minister. Haystounslacks
was driving from Gledsmuir, and unless the Lord protects him he will be in Avelin water ere he gets home. Whisky and a Glenavelin road never agree, Lewie, as I who have mended the fool’s head a dozen times should know. But I thought you would never come, and was prepared to ride in the next baker’s van.” The Doctor spoke with the pure English and high northern voice of an old school of professional men, whose tongue, save in telling a story, knew not the vernacular, and yet in its pitch and accent inevitably betrayed their birthplace. Precise in speech and dress, uncommonly skilful, a mild humorist, and old in the world’s wisdom, he had gone down the evening way of life with the heart of a boy.
“I was delayed — I could not help it, though I was all afternoon at the job,” said the young man. “I’ve seen a dozen and more tenants and I talked sheep and drains till I got out of my depth and was gravely corrected. It’s the most hospitable place on earth, this, but I thought it 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 are dreary.”
“I’m afraid I must excuse myself, Lewie,” was the formal answer, with just a touch of reproof. Dinner to Doctor Gracey was a serious ceremony, and invitations should not be scattered rashly. “My housekeeper’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 once cuffed 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. But physically she is my superior and I live in terror.” Then abruptly, “For heaven’s sake, Lewie, mind the mare.”
“It’s all right,” said the driver, as the dogcart swung neatly round an ugly 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 glad to be home, Lewie?”
“Rather,” said the young man gravely. “This is my own countryside, and I fancy it’s the last place a man forgets.”
“I fancy so — with right-thinking people. By the way, I have much to congratulate you on. We old fogies in this desert place have been often seeing your name in the newspapers lately. You are a most experienced traveller.”
“Fair. But people made a great deal more of that than it deserved. It was very simple, and I had every chance. Some day I will go out and do the same thing again with no advantages, and if I come back you may praise 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 case means settling up also. I suppose it is what you would call the crucial moment 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 a wonderful 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 mind about myself.”
“When you were a very small and very bad boy I made the usual prophecy that you would make a spoon or spoil a horn. Later I declared you would make the spoon. I still keep to that opinion, but I wish to goodness I knew what shape your spoon would take.”
“Ornamental, Doctor, some odd fancy spoon, but not useful. I feel an inner lack of usefulness.”
“Humph! Then things are serious, Lewie, and I, as your elder, should give 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 a little of the salt and iron of the world. You are too clever ever to be conceited, and you are too good a fellow ever to be a fool, but apart from these sad alternatives there are numerous middle stages which are not very happy.”
The young man’s face lengthened, as it always did either in repose or reflection.
“You are old and wise, Doctor. Have you any cure for a man with sufficient money and no immediate profession to prevent stagnation?”
“None,” said the Doctor; “but the man himself can find many. The chief is that he be conscious of his danger, and on the watch against it. As a 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,’” and the old face smiled. “You are too good to waste. You Haystouns are high-strung, finicking people, on whom idleness sits badly. Also you are the last of your race and have responsibilities. You must remember I 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 few people who remember him well and can tell me about him.”
“You are very like him, Lewie. He began nearly as well as you; but he settled down into a quiet life, which was the very thing for which he was least fitted. I do not know if he had altogether a happy time. He lost interest in things, and grew shy and rather irritable. He quarrelled with most of his neighbours, and got into a trick of magnifying little troubles till he shrank from the slightest discomfort.”
“And my mother?”
“Ah, your mother was different — a cheery, brave woman. While she lived she kept him in some measure of self-confidence, but you know she died at your birth, Lewie, and after that he grew morose and retiring. I speak about these things from the point of view of my profession, and I fancy it is the special disease which lies in your blood. You have all been over-cultured and enervated; as I say, you want some of the salt and iron of life.”
The young man’s brow was furrowed in a deep frown which in no way broke the good-humour of his face. They were nearing a cluster of houses, the last clachan of sorts in the glen, where a kirk steeple in a grove of trees proclaimed civilization. A shepherd passed them with a couple of dogs, striding with masterful step towards home and comfort. The cheery glow of firelight from the windows pleased both men as they were whirled through the raw weather.
“There, you see,” said the Doctor, nodding his head towards the retreating figure; “there’s a man who in his own way knows the secret of life. Most of his days are spent in dreary, monotonous toil. He is for ever wrestling with the weather and getting scorched and frozen, and the result is that the sparse enjoyments of his life are relished with a rare gusto. He sucks his pipe of an evening with a zest which the man who lies on his back all day smoking knows nothing about. So, too, the labourer who hoes turnips for one and sixpence the day. They know the arduousness of life, which is a lesson we must all learn sooner or later. 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 for the adornments. We must all be fighters and strugglers, Lewie, and it is better to wear out than to rust out. It is bad to let choice things become easily familiar; for, you know, familiarity is apt to beget a proverbial offspring.”
The young man had listened attentively, but suddenly he leaned from the seat and with a dexterous twitch of his whip curled it round the leg of a boy of sixteen who stood before a cottage.
“Hullo, Jock,” he cried. “When are you coming up to see me? Bring your brother some day and we’ll go and fish the Midburn.” The urchin pulled off a ragged cap and grinned with pleasure.
“That’s the boy you pulled out of the Avelin?” asked the Doctor. “I had heard of that performance. It was a good introduction to your home-coming.”
“It was nothing,” said the young man, flushing slightly. “I was crossing 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 and was c
arried down. I merely rode my horse out and collared him. There was no danger.”
“And the Black Linn just below,” said the Doctor, incredulously. “You have 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 of unhewn stone. The dogcart pulled up, and the Doctor scrambled down and stood shaking the rain from his hat and collar. He watched the young man till, with a skilful turn, he had entered Etterick gates, and then with a more meditative face than is usual in a hungry man he went through the trees to his own dwelling.
CHAPTER 2
LADY MANORWATER’S GUESTS
When the afternoon train from the south drew into Gledsmuir station, a girl who had been devouring the landscape for the last hour with eager eyes, rose nervously to prepare for exit. To Alice Wishart the country was a novel one, and the prospect before her an unexplored realm of guesses. The daughter of a great merchant, she had lived most of her days in the ugly environs of a city, save for such time as she had spent at the conventional schools. She had never travelled; the world of men and things was merely a name to her, and a girlhood, lonely and brightened chiefly by the companionship of books, had not given her self-confidence. She had casually met Lady Manorwater at some political meeting in her father’s house, and the elder woman had taken a strong liking to the quiet, abstracted child. Then came an invitation to Glenavelin, accepted gladly yet with much fear and searching of heart. Now, as she looked out on the shining mountain land, she was full of delight that she was about to dwell in the heart of it. Something of pride, too, was present, that she was to be the guest of a great lady, and see something of a life which seemed infinitely remote to her provincial thoughts. But when her journey drew near its end she was foolishly nervous, and scanned the platform with anxious eye.