The Half-Hearted | Page 4

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 II
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.
The sight of her hostess reassured her. Lady Manorwater was a small
middle-aged woman, with a thin classical face, large colourless eyes,
and untidy fair hair. She was very plainly dressed, and as she darted
forward to greet the girl with entire frankness and kindness, Alice
forgot her fears and kissed her heartily. A languid young woman was
introduced as Miss Afflint, and in a few minutes the three were in the
Glenavelin carriage with the wide glen opening in front.
"Oh, my dear, I hope you will enjoy your visit. We are quite a small
party, for Jack says Glenavelin is far too small to entertain in. You are
fond of the country, aren't you? And of course the place is very pretty.
There is tennis and golf and fishing; but perhaps you don't like these
things? We are not very well off for neighbours, but we are large
enough in number to be sufficient to ourselves. Don't you think so,
Bertha?" And Lady Manorwater smiled at the third member of the
group.
Miss Afflint, a silent girl, smiled back and said nothing. She had been
engaged in a secret study of Alice's face, and whenever the object of
the study raised her eyes she found a pair of steady blue ones beaming
on her. It was a little disconcerting, and Alice gazed out at the
landscape with a fictitious curiosity.
They passed out of the Gled valley into the narrower strath of Avelin,
and soon, leaving the meadows behind, went deep into the recesses of
woods. At a narrow glen bridged by the road and bright with the spray
of cascades and the fresh green of ferns, Alice cried out in delight, "Oh,

I must come back here some day and sketch it. What a Paradise of a
place!"
"Then you had better ask Lewie's permission." And Lady Manorwater
laughed.
"Who is Lewie?" asked the girl, anticipating some gamekeeper or
shepherd.
"Lewie is my nephew. He lives at Etterick, up at the head of the glen."
Miss Afflint spoke for the first time. "A very good man. You should
know Lewie, Miss Wishart. I'm sure you would like him. He is a great
traveller, you know, and has written a famous book. Lewis Haystoun is
his full name."
"Why, I have read it," cried Alice. "You mean the book about Kashmir.
But I thought the author was an old man."
"Lewie is not very old," said his aunt; "but I haven't seen him for years,
so he may be decrepit by this time. He is coming home soon, he says,
but he never writes. I know two of his friends who pay a Private
Inquiry Office to