There perhaps never was a more bewildered woman than Mrs. Dorriman, a lady whose mind was apt to be in an attitude of bewilderment about most things in this complex world. The problems of life weighed very heavily upon her (not only those deeper questions perplexing to scientific minds, and ranging from the consumption of gas, and its unexpected proportions in domestic economy, to the vexed question of shooting-stars and the influences of natural forces), but she was in a measure content to remain unenlightened, recognising, with some wisdom, that there was so very much she could not understand; it was quite hopeless to make an effort in any direction.

The immediate cause of her present bewilderment was a letter from her brother. This letter, lying upon her lap, had been read several times, and she held it by one corner daintily, and ruffled her brow as she looked at it—much as one might face the differential calculus while as yet the previous paths of mathematical intricacy had not been trod. It was on the west coast of Scotland, and on a certain day in September, that Mrs. Dorriman was sitting under a large rowan tree—whose scarlet berries were beginning to blaze forth in autumnal beauty; from where she sat the sea far away below her was distinctly heard in its incessant and musical monotony.

Upon one side the fair hills of Skye took every changing hue under the influence of sunshine and storm. Every hollow marked at one time by the vivid sunlight, which cast such clear sharp and lovely blue shadows, and again retiring behind a veil of mists; looking so near and so exquisitely coloured before rain, and half concealed by threatening clouds before the bursting of a storm.

Behind Mrs. Dorriman the ground sloped upwards and was well wooded; a burn came rushing and fell down the hill-side in the shape of a waterfall over the cliff; her own house was small, but well-planned, and was so sheltered that the flowers of spring, always so welcome to any one with even a faint sense of natural beauty, flourished here to perfection. By the burn-side a walk wound its way, having been cut out of the rock, and it went down to the sea-shore and skirted the cliff till it ended in a patch of grass, where three stones made a secure and comfortable seat.

Mrs. Dorriman was one of the women whose lives have been pursued by perpetual failure. Her childhood had been a neglected one, her youth had been the same; she was hurried into a marriage with a man much older than herself, whom, if she did not dislike, she had no real love for, and towards whom, when adversity came, she had nothing to draw her, for adversity is the highest test of love, and if there is no deep affection the breath of non-success kills it at once.

She was sorry when he died; but she had a deep-seated feeling that in some way every thing was his own fault—and she blamed him so much, and was so sorry for herself, that she had no room for pity. Only when he died and had given one half reproachful, half imploring look, a dim sense of some want in herself and of her injustice came to her, and she had suddenly bent down and kissed him, and she was always glad of this; she had forgiven him at the last, and had let him know it.

For some years now she had lived at Inchbrae, understanding vaguely how she came to live there, and how her income arrived. Everything was confusion to her on this subject. She never knew how it was that all she had came from her brother. Her husband had been a wealthy man when she had married him; and though they had moved from one place to another, and always seemed to be going back, instead of going forward, still it seemed strange to her that she was dependent and not independent.

The remembrance of those early days had taught her in some measure to comprehend her brother's character, her brother who was her half-brother, a tie which can be made so close, or so far apart!

This remembrance gave her a conviction lying well hid up in her secret heart, that but for some great reason the ostensible kindness would not be there; and half-frightened, indeed more than half-frightened, at the temerity of her thoughts she rose suddenly from her seat, and was recalled to her present position by the letter which fluttered to the ground.

This letter requested her in terms, which amounted to a command, to give up her house and come and live with him—not to let the house, but to sell it; indeed, he informed her that, having no doubt as to her being glad to do as he wished, he had already taken steps to effect this.

Poor Mrs. Dorriman! She was so little certain of being happy under her brother's roof, that it was very terrible to her to put herself in a position from which she could not retreat at will. She was a woman who had never in all her life had a confidante or a friend from whom she could take counsel, being one of those rare characters who literally cannot speak to any one of the things nearest her. In her childhood and her youth she had been isolated and had had no companions, and between her and her husband there had never been full confidence; thoughts so entirely kept to oneself are apt to become bitter and one-sided; nothing is perhaps more unwholesome than allowing no light from the outside world to brighten those darker thoughts which come at times to every one, and which a frank and open discussion with a friend will often chase away; but if this is perilous in ordinary cases it is far worse when a thought lies in the heart with so terrible a portent that it acts as a drop of deadly poison, and that only the knowledge of its power keeps it from being brought out and looked at in all its bearings.

The sea-breeze ruffled Mrs. Dorriman's hair. She was not much over thirty, and after her mourning was over, had worn no cap. She had much that was comely in her countenance and person, but her large and rather light grey eyes had a habit of looking down as though something might be read in them she wished to conceal, and her face had lost its bloom. She moved well, but with the slow step of one who has never known robust health, and to whom repose is more acceptable than activity.

Long she sat there thinking, one idea running through all her thoughts—What was the use of any reflection? Her brother, Mr. Sandford, twenty years her senior, had always been the master of her fate, and always would be. She was to all intents and purposes powerless, unless.... She clasped her hands together, and the colour rose for a moment in her pale cheeks. Slowly a resolution formed itself in her mind. With a step in which no hurry appeared, but with her mind strung up, she went up the path to her house. It seemed very fair to her now she was to leave it—as things become more desirable to us all as they recede from our grasp—and she stopped for a moment to look at it. The grey roughhewn stones were partly concealed by various creepers; roses and honeysuckle overhung the porch, and the garden with its well-kept lawn still showed a perfect feast of colour to the eye. Mrs. Dorriman sighed, and, going into the house, she wrote a note, and rang for her servant. She was still a little flushed, but she sent her note, and taking up her work she sat down and went on with it mechanically. No one seeing her could have imagined that she had for the first time in all her life begun to set in motion an act of rebellion.

She kept looking along the road which showed itself between the self-sown birches that clothed the valley. The answer to her note came in the shape of a dilapidated pony-chaise with a pony in it, whose multifarious occupations left it saddened and subdued in appearance, requiring much persuasion to make it go with any approach to speed. It crept down the hills and it crawled up them, and its winter coat was already thick enough to render it absolutely impervious to a whip, which had grown shorter and lost its lash in service against it. That pony might with much truth have said to any one trying to urge it on, "It amuses you and does not hurt me." Mrs. Dorriman on those rare occasions when she had occasion to go to the nearest town, nine miles off, had borrowed this little turn-out from the farmer who kept it for his invalid mother, and she knew the pony well; when she saw it coming she folded up her letter and went upstairs, putting on her things as though she was going to church, and standing at the door ready to get in when it drew up there. The rosy-cheeked boy who drove, was gifted by nature with no desire for conversation, and Mrs. Dorriman took a book to beguile the tediousness of the way, which she read, as we do at times, without taking in the sense of it, her mind full of the approaching change, and the plan she had suddenly made, and which was at variance with all the previous habits of her life.

That love of beautiful scenery which few people are really born without, made her from time to time raise her head and look around her. High overhead towered the hills on either side, with their huge rents and rifts clothed with mosses, and here and there a patch of grass upon which the hardy little mountain sheep clustered. Lower down, the natural birch-woods were a mass of gold, their colour enhanced by the swaying movement of their graceful boughs, which caught the sunlight and kept it dancing there. One chain of lochs after another swept down the strath with wooded promontories and islands, and the hills rose "peak above peak," carrying the thoughts upwards to that heaven they seemed to reach. There was movement in the air, but the wind, though coming up the strath from the sea, was soft and mild. From a few cottages, that looked miserable enough and yet were warm within, came that smell of peat which to those whose foot has trod the heather all their lives is full of pleasant associations—of fine days, when a bowl of milk and a hunch of oaten bread was enjoyed after the keen air; of wet days, when, wandering far on pony-back and overtaken by the rain, a peat-fire had brought warmth, and comfort, and that real hospitality, which somehow never fails amongst the poor. Mrs. Dorriman in her whole life had been indebted to the poor for all the love and real kindness she had ever known—many a kind woman pitying the motherless child, had cheered her, many a man remembering the sweet sad face of the mother who had lived her short life amongst them, a life short but full of sweetest remembrances to all whom it had touched, had shown their gratitude to the mother in kindness to the child. Nothing had been so painful to her as leaving her old home, not because of any kindness in the home where she had been taught many bitter lessons, but because of the warm close friends who filled her life, and who were to be found in almost every cottage on the hill-side.

Had she been going there, happiness would have predominated over pain, but Mr. Sandford (who made a merit of having no foolish preferences) had sold the old home long ago, and had built a house according to his own taste within two miles of a thriving manufacturing town, and poor Mrs. Dorriman had often enough heard of its smoke, of the trees killed by vapours from some sulphur-works, and of the blighted flowers; and, like all people who live alone and in their own thoughts, exaggerated the miserable prospect before her. She was entirely dependent on her brother, and had no option, but, though she was too timid to make a stand against him, she had enough of the woman in her to think it no harm to circumvent him to a certain extent, especially as he need never know it unless ... and then she broke off thinking, and resolutely buried herself once more in her book, taking in as little of it as before.

She was roused by the sight of the row of small houses which was the beginning of the town, and by the voice of the boy, who broke the two hours' silence and inquired in a stolid voice, "Where wull I put ye doon?"

"At the draper's, Willie; and I will call at the inn when I am ready to go home."

She went into the draper's shop and took thought for a moment—even on such an occasion the habit of her mind was against buying any unnecessary thing—and she gazed a little helplessly at the array of cloth and homespun upon one side of the shop, and at the groceries and barrels of flour and herrings upon the other; the prevailing odour being tarred rope, herrings, and candles of the primitive sort made in the district—dips with much cotton and very little tallow.

The attentive shopman leaned over the counter (she dealt there)—he was half afraid she had come to make some complaint—and he inquired in those dulcet tones in which a distinct fear might have been read, what she required.

Mrs. Dorriman gazed at him a little helplessly and made no answer for a moment or so, and then, in a lower voice than was usual with her, she asked the way to the bank.

Good Mr. Forbes immediately reflected she might have had some bad news, and he moved a chair for her sympathetically, but she would not sit down. Throwing himself over the counter he went to the door and explained that the bank was higher up the street and on the right-hand side—indeed, as the town contained very little except the one very long straggling street, it would have been very difficult to have missed it.

Mrs. Dorriman bowed her thanks, looked out to see that the pony-carriage and boy were well out of sight, having a vague feeling that, if the boy knew she had gone to the bank, all her most private intentions might immediately become known to her brother. Murmuring something indistinct about coming back, she walked up the street, the paving of which was not carried out as a whole, but boasted only of flags before the bettermost houses, and the spaces between were of earth and often muddy.

The unwonted appearance of a lady walking along called every one to their door—the two butchers' shops, not rivals but friends, who killed one sheep on alternate days not to "interfere" with each other—the baker's shop with its complement of bare-footed children around it—the post-office with an imposing board and the most excellent sweeties in one window (which accounted for an occasional stickiness as regarded letters), were all passed, and not giving herself time to think, Mrs. Dorriman hurried on, entered the bank, and asked for Mr. Macfarlane.

Mr. Macfarlane, who had been occasionally at Inchbrae to see her on business, was a little startled by the advent of a woman who had never before been to the bank, and he naturally imagined that some bad news had brought her there.

"I hope," he began, as he came into the small room which was sacred to interviews and away from the hearing of the two young clerks, who wrote diligently at times and made up for their industry at others, by biting the tops of their pens and scanning the county newspaper, every line of which, in default of other literature, they knew by heart—"I hope——"

"It is no bad news," said Mrs. Dorriman, her nervousness betraying itself in her voice; "but there is no one here I can go to about anything—and I want to ask your advice about something."

Mr. Macfarlane knew the world, and he knew also a good deal more about Mrs. Dorriman's position than she did herself. But he was a man who made it a rule never to interfere in any one's business, having enough of his own on his hands. Any one looking at him and having a knowledge of countenances would have seen at once that caution predominated over all other impulses. His expression was an absolute blank just now, and Mrs. Dorriman, who had instinctively turned to him in appeal, shrank a little, and he saw it.

"I am not a man fond of interfering," he said, gravely; "but I hope I can see when I can do a kindness, and do it—always supposing that in doing it I do no one any wrong."

"I want your advice," Mrs. Dorriman said, nervously. In asking advice was she doing her brother any wrong?

"And upon what subject?" Mr. Macfarlane took out his watch, counted the seconds with his thumb and returned it to his pocket. Urged by this evidence of time being precious, poor Mrs. Dorriman, without any of those explanations which she had turned over in her mind as necessary to lead up to the subject, rushed into it at once. "My brother, Mr. Sandford, wishes me to live with him——"

"To live with him?" Mr. Macfarlane was a little surprised, but he knew also that this could not be all. "I suppose he is anxious to have more of a home than a bachelor has as a rule," he said, after a pause.

"He wishes me to give up Inchbrae."

"Give it up! You do not mean to sell it out and out?"

"Yes, he desires me to sell it," and Mrs. Dorriman's voice showed plainly what selling it meant to her, and what a pang it would give her.

Mr. Macfarlane was a little puzzled now. Though he knew a good deal of her history, he was not at all sure what the relations between brother and sister were, that is to say, he knew a great deal, but not everything, and he was afraid of making a false move from ignorance, and putting this poor lady into a worse position than she at present was in.

He looked at her expectantly, and then he said kindly, "Then you intend going to him—you intend leaving Inchbrae?"

"I must," she said, nervously.

"And my advice is not needed then, since you have made up your mind."

There was a visible struggle going on in her. "I am afraid I must go, since he wishes it, but—need I sell the place, Mr. Macfarlane?"

"The place is yours—I would not sell it if I were you."

"But he commands me," she said, bitterly, "and——"

"And you do not know what the consequences may be if you refuse to do so?"

"I—I know nothing," she said, helplessly.

Mr. Macfarlane was sorry for her, he understood quite well what was weighing on her—she was afraid of disobeying—she thought herself too much in Mr. Sandford's hands—too much in his power. Before he had time to speak she said, hurriedly, "Perhaps it had better not be discussed, perhaps I had better do it."

But here, the thought of having no home to come to if she was unhappy—the pang of parting with the little place she so loved, where her husband had died, and each shrub and tree of which she had seen planted, was too much for her—and her quivering lips and tearful eyes awoke real sympathy in Mr. Macfarlane's heart.

"What is in your mind, Mrs. Dorriman?" he said, kindly, and putting aside his official air he leaned forward and spoke to her, inviting her to speak her confidence.

Mrs. Dorriman turned red and pale, she was troubled, and her nervousness increased.

"I cannot bear parting with the place for ever," she exclaimed, but in a low voice, "if——" In vain poor Mr. Macfarlane waited, words would not come for some time, then in a hurried way she said, "Could I sell on the understanding that I might buy it back when I chose?"

"Yes, it might be done if the money was in your own hands. Was it bought in your name or in that of Mr. Sandford?"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "then it is hopeless!" Her countenance fell, and Mr. Macfarlane was more sorry for her than ever.

He was himself a little puzzled and anxious. He did not know how far she could keep things to herself, and he had to think before he could offer any suggestion; it would never do to be involved in an angry discussion and correspondence with Mr. Sandford. Then a certain sense of shame came to him. He hated getting into any trouble; he hated interfering, but he was an upright man. What he knew justified him in guiding her, and he could not be so mean as to let her risk losing everything when a word might help her. He was cautious, but without entering into details he might advise her. He knew that giving up her house at Mr. Sandford's bidding was probably because Mr. Sandford had good reasons for wishing her to be under his own eye, and he had enough knowledge of circumstances to make him confident that she would lose nothing by being bolder, and asserting herself a little.

"Mrs. Dorriman," he said, impressively, "I do not think that you will find it answer, either to sell the place or to make private conditions about a sale unknown to your brother. My advice to you is simply this: refuse to sell, and let the place—so pretty and pleasant a place will easily let—and point out to your brother that after your experience of investments you think it better not to sell, but to keep the rent in your own hands, which will make you independent of his assistance during your stay with him; a lady wants clothes and ... a little money for herself."

Mrs. Dorriman coloured vividly. Now exactly he understood—the remembrance of long ago, when as a girl she had been forced to go to him for every little want, and often and often had gone without things rather than face the taunts and grudging words he showered upon her, came to her now. How well! oh! how well, Mr. Macfarlane understood!

Then that hidden thought came up as it often did when memory went back to those old days, and a flash almost of terror as though she had let her secret escape her shone in her eyes and startled Mr. Macfarlane, who was watching her keenly.

"You are sure that in this instance disobeying my brother will not ... will not do harm?" she said in a faltering voice.

"I am certain of it," he said firmly, "and it is best to act quite straightforwardly—I mean," he said, hurriedly correcting himself when he saw her wince, "you would find yourself in quite a false position if you had nominally agreed to do what your brother wished and yet reserved a power which virtually neutralised the sale."

She bowed her head, "You are right, Mr. Macfarlane, and yet...."

"It is natural you should shrink from doing anything to displease him," he said, trying to follow her thoughts and fancying he had done so.

"It is not quite that—it is not only that," she murmured in a low voice.

She had purposely left the letter at home; she wanted him to help her, and yet she did not wish to show him all, or to tell him the rough terms her brother had used. Like many another person she quite forgot that a half-confidence is worse than none.

Mr. Macfarlane was more puzzled now than ever. What was really at the bottom of all this; what did she fear?

The pale slight woman before him, who had never known peace till now, had evidently some complex mode of reasoning entirely beyond his powers of divination.

Poor woman! she saw her tranquil life slipping past her beyond recall, and the problem present to her now was, how she could let Mr. Macfarlane know, she was not quite at her brother's mercy, that she held something in reserve, without allowing him to guess what that something was?

The impossibility of doing this was by turns before her with its desirability, then she joined her secret thought to his outspoken words, and said in a firm voice, "I will refuse to sell." Mr. Macfarlane was immensely surprised, but, imagining that she was simply following the advice he had given her, he was also flattered. Asking advice generally meant making up your mind beforehand and going to hear the reason for and against having done so, when it was too late to alter anything.

"I am sure you are right," he said, warming towards her, "and anything I can do——"

"You can receive the rent and forward it to me," she said, "when the place is let. I must have time," she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "to arrange and put away my things." Mr. Macfarlane was amused by her simple belief in the production of a desirable tenant at a moment's notice.

He laughed a little. "It will take a little time, Mrs. Dorriman, to get just the person you want; some weeks at any rate. A step like this cannot be taken in a hurry—you yourself will require time."

"Yes, if I can get it," she rejoined, speaking her thought aloud.

"Come and have some luncheon with my wife," he said kindly; "she will make you welcome, I know."

Mrs. Dorriman accepted the proffered kindness, and followed him into the comfortable room where Mrs. Macfarlane was found with five children; who were introduced and dismissed in a breath.

Mrs. Macfarlane was one of those pleasant cheerful kindly women who see the sunny side of life most. She had been a petted daughter, was an idolized wife, and an adored mother. Her husband carried all his perplexities and all his troubles to her, and by so doing lightened them. She had a keen, shrewd way of looking at things, and was so wrapt up in her husband and children that she had no time for outside friendships. Her chief fault (as imperfection in some shape is but human) was her intolerance of imaginary woes, and want of reality in any and every shape.

She thought life was made so unnecessarily hard, not by real circumstances, but by the way those circumstances were dealt with.

She saw no hardship, where health and strength existed, in self-denial for those who were loved. She was completely out of sympathy with people who suffered acutely from what they falsely considered a loss of dignity. She had seven children, a very moderate income, and two servants. If those servants were busy or out, or hard at work, she opened her own front door and saw no harm in it; just as on Sunday she took the milk in when her servants were in church. To say that she had arrived at doing this without some trouble would be untrue, because all her neighbours thought her dreadfully wanting in that high standard of gentility that was their own.

But no woman is consistent without having a certain power and influence amongst her fellows. She had splendid health, and her powers of repartee were so well known that no one cared to lay themselves open to an answer—her absence of ill-health giving her a command of temper that always placed her in an advantageous position.

She was extremely sorry for Mrs. Dorriman: to be alone as she was, to have to face the world without any backbone (which was her way of putting it) was to her, like expecting a fish to swim deprived of its fins.

Nothing more gracious, more kindly, can be conceived than her manner to the poor lady who so required it, and one slight effect of her influence was amusing enough. Instead of leaving the bank and going to fetch the pony-carriage, Mrs. Dorriman boldly sent for it to come and take her up there.