The Half-Hearted eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 273 pages of information about The Half-Hearted.

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.”

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The Half-Hearted from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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