The Half-Hearted | Page 3

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
carried down. I merely rode my horse out and collared him. There was
no danger."
"And the