Mrs. Dorriman drove home, well wrapped-up, and in a glow of feeling which would have been difficult to analyse. To one who is, as a rule, in an undecided state of mind, the very fact of having come to a decision is a comfortable feeling: besides this, there had been friendliness and kindness just at the moment the poor woman had been sorely needing both—and, though directly opposed to poetical ideas, it may here be surely confessed that excellent food—daintily set before her, and proffered with that true hospitality which nowhere is more real than in Scotland, and was conspicuous in Mrs. Macfarlane—had its share.

Then the support a cheerful, honest, and direct person (above all petty prejudices, and seeing facts disentangled from all complications) is capable of giving, had a most beneficial influence. Mrs. Dorriman's character had suffered in a long and weary contest against petty tyranny—just as a tender sapling may live and grow exposed to adverse and cruel winds, but it will be bent, and twisted, and gnarled, and finally grow stunted and fixed in one direction—an existing proof of the severity to which it was exposed when too young to stand against it.

A child, motherless, and with an invalid father, she had been unwelcome; the half-brother, who was so many years her senior, had asserted his authority harshly over and over again. She had been taught something, in odd ways, as representations from outsiders had been made, and she had learned some lessons not intended to be taught her. By nature anything but strong, she was timid and nervous, shrinking from every one, expecting roughness, repressed and taking refuge by her father's paralysed form as the one place where she could hear no reproaches. She dared make no friends, and she did not distinguish between those she might have made, and those she had better not make. No servant stayed long enough to befriend the child, and her earliest recollection was the departure of her nurse, who having, upon one occasion, got certain dainties for her, and being met by John Sandford, had been dismissed on the spot, as a thief. Mrs. Dorriman could yet remember how she had shivered in the cold nursery that night, and how helplessly she had tried to undress herself; and how, when all was quiet, a kind-hearted rough dairymaid had brought her a bowl of milk and a hunch of bread—and how wretched it had all been since then, when it was no one's business to look after her, and how she had been indebted to one or another servant (as they had tried) to do anything for her. Then a rough school, where no one seemed to care about her and where she was in perpetual disgrace for not knowing lessons she could not even read; the discovery of her appalling ignorance and the mortification of having as a child of nine to stand by little ones of five and learn as they did; the scanty provision sent for her clothes, whose very patches she vividly remembered—a harder nature would have soured for life. Mrs. Dorriman grew up with all the spirit crushed out of her, but she was not hardened. She had no holidays; she was left year after year there till she was seventeen. Then a gleam of joy broke into her life, for she was suddenly summoned home—by her father's wish—and she had arrived to find that he had made a rally, and that John Sandford was not there.

Her father could barely speak, even inarticulately. She yet could recall his wondering touch upon her shabby gown, and how, almost as in a fairy-tale, she had suddenly found herself in possession of much she had never dreamed of having.

His one happiness seemed to be to see her, and to have her near him. A few months passed like this—very few. She had arrived poorly clad, and suffering from the acute cold and bitter wind, in late autumn; when the snowdrops were still blooming, and the earliest trees were yet in bud, he died suddenly; giving her just before his death a little case in which she saw a lovelier fairer likeness of herself—her mother.

She had loved him with all the love that had never before had an outlet. The days that followed were like a painful dream. What she had, what her position was—of all this she knew absolutely nothing. The one thing she clung to was the old grey house, with the great beech and plane trees, and silver firs, up which the squirrels (imps of mischief though they are) ran so gracefully. The sea—the friend of all, giving society and music to the desolate, and rejoicing the hearts of those who are lighthearted enough to enjoy its sparkling moods—that sea was now her friend. To wander in the wood and look down upon it; to let its salt spray touch her face as it broke upon the rocks.—She loved it in every mood, and found there something of the comfort which the absence of any intimate religion deprived her of, the bald learning of a few verses, the chapters read in the morning in a dull tone by a shivering teacher in the fireless schoolroom; where, from motives of economy, the fire (generally kindled with damp sticks, and which hardly ever did anything but smoke) was never even allowed to have a match put to it till the girls were all assembled there.

This had been her religious instruction; and, as the church was very far from them, they seldom went, and, when they did go, the walk was too long for her, and most painful from the chilblains, which caused her much suffering; so that cold and pain were the chief impressions in connection with a sense of fatigue which left her half-awake in church, and employing all her energy in trying to conceal the fact of her drowsiness.

Then one day, while looking out on the sea, some few months after her father's death, her hat off, and a vague sense of wishing she had something to look forward to, pressing upon her, Mr. Dorriman had come, and her brother.

Instead of the usual sneering tone in which John Sandford addressed his sister, she was startled out of herself by hearing him speak with civility. The surprise gave her a brilliant glow, which touched her face with colour and lightened it up. Mr. Dorriman thought her lovely. Her gentle helplessness was another great attraction, an attraction which every day's acquaintance increased. Without fully understanding how it all came about she found herself Mrs. Dorriman, and content to be so and to get away from the roughness and unkindness which was all that she ever knew of the brotherly tie. At first she had not been unhappy. Mr. Dorriman was so fond of her and so carefully surrounded her with comforts and kindness that she was more than content, though she was not in the least in love with him. But soon shadows came. A man of some property, he was unfortunately surrounded by men of wealth. He argued that where those round him made gigantic fortunes he could do the same—putting upon one side the important fact that they had been trained to business and he had not. He plunged into every opening where he thought he saw a chance of success; losses only made him more certain of success in a new direction. He was upright, honourable, and kind-hearted to a fault. He knew really nothing of business, and imagined that in a few days he could master details other men had spent their whole lives in studying—and in this idea John Sandford confirmed him. After seven years of anxieties, and hopes, and fears, he found himself ruined in health from over-worry, broken in fortune, and not able to shield his wife from the consequences. That she had never loved him he knew and had long known. But he had learned from her something of her life and of the absence of happiness which had made her what she was. He also had many a score against John Sandford could he but live to pay them. There was much in the transactions between them he could not understand, and which, looking back upon now by the light of his failures, quite apart from his own speculations, he was certain, he had reason to know, had not been fair or right. But this conviction came to him too late; before he had done more than collect notes and tabulate letters he was struck down by fever, which his constitution could not stand, and Mrs. Dorriman found herself at twenty-five a widow, at the mercy of the world and her brother.

This little place of Inchbrae had been bought by her husband for her when he found how much the sea entered into her thoughts and how she loved it, and he went there to die, leaving her, he thought, a home, and a home she liked.

Mrs. Dorriman, however, after thinking that all was not lost, so she had it, only learned afterwards that she was there as a tenant at will; the place was hers, but all else had passed into her brother's hands in virtue of some claim he had on her husband's property, and she had not a penny!

The last blow completed that helpless feeling of indignation she had against her husband's incapacity for business. The test of a woman's love, as we have said, is adversity, and poor Mrs. Dorriman had never any love to begin with. She possessed her soul in patience before the world, but only before the world; in secret it was one long incessant protest against her fate. She felt in her heart of hearts, though even to herself she did not so plainly speak, that she had not received her share of the bargain. She had married to get out of her brother's power, and she had been a dutiful if not an affectionate wife, and now she was more in her brother's hands than ever! More because she was a proud woman, and her brother made her plainly understand that much that was painful as regarded her husband's transactions might be brought forward by him if he chose to do so.

It was just at that time, just when a helpless sense of loss every where filled her and made her very wretched, and that she was gathering everything together to go away, that Mrs. Dorriman came upon a whole box of papers, some letters all marked and arranged in order, receipts, and other things.

Poor Mr. Dorriman's great idea of business was keeping and docketing every line he ever received, and copies of much that he wrote.

His widow looked at these documents with something of the pang with which we see the relics of a hand no longer there. Indeed, since her husband's death, the faint affection she had had for him had undergone a change. She was indignant when she thought of his business incapacity, but she missed his kindness and she regretted him more each day, as each day taught her how much he had cared for her.

Should she burn these papers, or not? Timid as she was constitutionally—she looked round her, and at that moment she saw her brother coming up to the house. Afraid he might sneer at her sentimentality, or say something to vex her about her looking at them, she hastily pushed the box under the sofa, and sat down, not wishing to conceal anything, but merely from that one idea, that, if he saw her with the old letters before her, he might wound her in some way.

Her brother's visit taught her for the very first time that in that box might lie documents of importance to her husband and to her.

After sitting down for a moment or two, he rose and moved about restlessly, and then he said—

"I have to find some papers; where did your husband keep his papers?" Without expecting an answer, he said, "Oh, I know, in his writing-table drawers." And, without waiting for her to speak, he went into her husband's room, and she heard him lock the door.

Mrs. Dorriman rose, and, filling the skirt of her dress with some of the papers, she made silent and successive journeys to her own bedroom, where she concealed all, hastily throwing some skeins of worsted into the empty box, and once again sat down. She knew nothing—but there must be some reason for her brother's anxiety, and she had suffered so much at his hands that her whole instinct was alive in self-defence.

But a timid woman does not act in this way for the first time in her life without betraying something of the agitation into which it had thrown her.

When Mr. Sandford, with angry and baffled eyes, came back to her, he saw something in her face which roused his suspicions. To have put the suspicion into words would have perhaps roused hers, but from that moment the poor woman's dream of a peaceful life at Inchbrae with no one to dread, was a dream that had no foundation. He went away a day or two afterwards, and she lulled herself into a belief of contentment. So soon as Mr. Sandford's plans were made, though it took weeks and months to arrange them, he summoned her to his house. Certain in his own mind that she had concealed those papers, he determined to have such a hold over her as would give him the power of getting them into his own hands, if they were there.

In the meantime the fruits of her visits to the Macfarlanes appeared in the letter which she sent to Mr. Sandford next day.

"Dear Brother," she wrote,

"I am quite willing to go and keep house for you for a time, but I will let my house and prefer not selling it; I like the place and do not wish to part with it.

"When I have made my arrangements I and my maid will go to you. I will write again when I know the day and hour on which I can leave.

"Your affectionate

"Sister Susan."

She felt happier when she had thus boldly asserted her freedom of choice.

Two days came and went, two lovely autumnal days, during which poor Mrs. Dorriman, instead of preparing to depart, wandered over the little place, every nook and corner of which was sweet to her at all times, and was doubly dear to her now she was going away. Late in the afternoon of the third day she was walking down the burn-side, stopping ever and again to look with renewed admiration at the scenery round her, and watching the purple bloom upon the distant hills as the evening shadows came down, a purple tinge which was reflected in the sea except where a blaze of gold in the sky shone with more broken lights below; the sun was low behind the hills, and heavy clouds speaking of rain to come were lowering in fine contrast with the vivid light lying between them and the hills. The sea-birds were agitated and astir; from the open sea upon her left came that hoarse strange murmur hurrying up like a relentless fate across the bosom of the sea. The light faded, grew less and less as the clouds descended, the wind increased in violence, and everything spoke of a coming storm.

Mrs. Dorriman saw the rain-clouds burst and stream down in the distance; she could not move, that curious foreshadowing of coming evil which we call presentiment made her cling to the spot. She heard herself called, she would not turn, she knew if she turned she would all the sooner hear what she did not want to hear. Then her faithful maid, the creature who cared more for her than any one, came up to her and touched her.

"The boy is waiting," she said, breathless with the speed she had used. "Here is a telegram, and oh, my dear, there's nine whole shillings to pay. It's no mistake—it's marked on it. I hope it may be worth all that good money."

Mrs. Dorriman clutched the telegram in her hand, and went swiftly up the path and to her own room.

Before she got in the rain had come to them, and it came down with a violence which the wind seemed to increase as it dashed it against the windows. As her foot was on the stair Mrs. Dorriman's kindly nature made her say,

"Be good to the boy, Jean; he cannot face the storm for a bit."

Jean, who was one of those dear old women whose delight is in ministering to some one's wants, and who was never happier than when having the opportunity of doing so, went into the kitchen happy, and was soon busy heating "a fine sup of broth for him," and other things as well—when she heard a cry.

Setting the broth before him, and carefully shutting all the doors, that he, an outsider, should hear nothing, Jean hurried upstairs. Mrs. Dorriman was sitting on the sofa, and looking white and miserable. The open telegram lay on the ground. She had flung it away as we fling away something that hurts us, and when Jean came in she laid hold of her arm, and pointed to it.

Jean lifted it up, and read as follows:—

"I have sold the place, and you are to be here at six o'clock next Saturday—without fail. The new proprietor will be there that day. No maid or other servant can come here."

Jean read and re-read—she did not take it all in at first. Then an indignation and a whole storm of righteous wrath rose within her.

She put her arms round poor Mrs. Dorriman, and they mingled their tears together.

A few words went back in answer to Mr. Sandford's telegram:—

"I will come, as I must come, on Saturday."

This message did not go for many hours. The boy was in no great hurry to leave the comfortable quarters he was in, and got back too late for the message to leave that night.

Mr. Sandford, aware that his sister would not have asserted herself in so unwonted a manner had she not gained spirit and strength from some source unknown to him, had passed a sleepless and agitated night, after receiving her letter.

In his dealings with Mr. Dorriman there were so many things that might appear against him. He was too cautious and too clever a man to put upon paper himself a word that might at any time rise up against him. But he knew Mr. Dorriman's ways; he knew that the one business-like habit he had was the tidy and careful way he had of docketing and filing all his papers. How often had the poor man not pointed to those carefully-folded and initialed slips, as a proof of how entirely nature had intended him for a thorough man of business?

Though Mr. Sandford, with a flow of language, and great powers of speech, could always confute him in an argument, how often he himself had felt uncomfortable when some paper he had entirely forgotten re-appeared in a moment, with its initial letter and note, showing to what it referred, written in a fine clear style outside.

One book, and only one of any importance, had he found in the writing-table drawers. This book was a carefully drawn up list of the papers Mr. Dorriman considered valuable or of any importance. It was written in that curiously neat and precise hand to be found generally in those who have nothing to do, and do that methodically.

All Mr. Dorriman's conception of business lay in this orderly manner of keeping papers; his losses and his gains were to him all vagueness. He hoped to get something by taking shares in one or another company, and he believed implicitly in whatever it was at the moment; was not only enthusiastic, but tired out his friends by the manner in which at inappropriate moments he introduced the hobby of the hour, which was to make his own fortune so completely that his good heart wanted all his friends to become rich in a like manner.

The immediate cause of his failure had been a carpet manufactory. Needless to say, he did not know one carpet from another, but it was sufficient for him that other people did. Wool was all round him on the hills, and the same primitive dyes of our forefathers still existed on every muir.

The Cluny Macpherson plaid is the first and most primitive of all tartans, having only the natural colours of the wool—the bloom and the root of the heather in its manufacture.

Mr. Dorriman was fired with the ambition of producing carpets on the same principle, where only black and white, purple and yellow, were to be combined.

His first expense was, of course, machinery; his second storehouses; his third was in experimenting how to extract the purple from the hills in a satisfactory manner, and at small expense. Then it occurred to him that growing the wool himself would be such a splendid idea! and quantities of sheep were bought—without much reference to their keep—and his first experience in connection with them was, that not having sufficient turnips of their own they not unnaturally laid siege to those of their neighbours, and so effectually, that heavy damages had to be met. Then he had not taken into consideration that there was no railway near him—and he had to procure carts to carry fuel to feed his engines.

Here he is spoken of in the singular number, but five people joined him in this enterprise. There were some carpets made upon the principle of primitive colours of no particular pattern; they were made of the best wool, and would probably wear for a long time, but their ugliness was their most salient feature; they cost an enormous sum of money to produce, and the result of a struggling existence for three years was to carpet his own house, much against his wife's inclinations, to provide certain carpets for the other members, to sell a few at a loss, and to collapse. Mr. Dorriman was not one of those men who, because they are extremely sanguine at one moment, are proportionately depressed at another. He bore disappointment with unflinching good humour, and was so immediately interested in a new scheme that the sense of failure never rested long upon him. In this instance, however, whether from failing health or from some cause not evident, he was seriously affected. Though he did not know it—he was the only one of the six investors who had any real property, and the consequence was that the whole loss fell upon his unfortunate shoulders.

To Inchbrae, his wife's little property, his thoughts turned. There he went and there he died; and it was only then, as before said, that a glimmer of reproach at her want of understanding touched his wife, and she had kissed him tenderly.

The record in his book that troubled Mr. Sandford's peace was not any written record, it was what was left blank. After detailing various papers there came this:—

Letters from John Sandford.

1. About the broken fences at Ardenthird.

2. " sale of larch-poles.

3. " advice on the subject of wool.

4. Papers and memorandums of his conversation about my wife's money.

5. Memorandums, written verbatim on same subject.

6. Certified copies, verbatim, on same subject.

7. Certified copies, verbatim, on same subject.

8. Transcribed conversation word for word.

9. Have not succeeded in seeing my father-in-law's will.

10. Copy of paper ... old Mr. Sandford.

What did all these last memorandums refer to? He had not seen the will. What paper had he a copy of, and why had he had that paper copied, and who had copied it for him? This book which John Sandford carried away with him gave him the most endless and intense anxiety. His own conscience spoke of a thousand things, a thousand transactions between them, that must not see the light. The very vagueness of it all was an additional trouble to him.

Through the day this annoyance pressed upon him, but through the night these shadows became real fears. He tormented himself in vain. Sixth and seventh all blank. Those unwritten words might be of terrible moment to him, for, as all men have their ambition in one or another corner, John Sandford had his—to be looked up to and to be respected. He was wealthy, but he remembered enough of the old days to know that mere wealth would bring but outward respect, and that character was the real power there, in that land where he craved for power. For power was what he really loved; he loved to feel that his will was law, and till his poor half-sister married he had made her feel this, as he tried to make every one else feel it. When he received her answer he was absolutely frantic; the least opposition to his will made him all the more resolute to enforce it, and he knew immediately that in some way unknown to him she had gathered strength. There was an assertion of herself in her answer both new and unexpected. All the more was he determined she should come under his roof. There was another reason, though he thought of it as a reason only when the desirability of her being under his own immediate supervision became so evident to him.

Mr. Sandford had married when in India, though, as his wife died within the year, and no one had ever seen her in Scotland, the fact was often entirely forgotten.

How his marriage would have turned out eventually is more than any one can say, but it had been the one softening influence in his life, and the one real grief had been his wife's loss. She had a twin sister who died before her, leaving two little girls, and the one request she had time to make was that he would always befriend these children for her sake; she made him promise this. Under the softening influences of the moment he had written to their relations telling them of his promise, and assuring them of his intention to keep his word if called upon to do so.

Having done this, and having received letters expressive of their gratitude, he forgot them as completely as though no such children existed.

Four years before the time when Mrs. Dorriman sat in tears at Inchbrae, in the arms of her faithful Jean, Mr. Sandford received a letter the purport of which was, that the little girls were now orphans, their circumstances not so good as might be, and in consequence of his promise (vide copy of letter inclosed) the old lady who had cared for them wrote to him for assistance and advice.

And he gave both, and assisted them at school, and now when these girls were respectively 18 and 16 he was once more asked in what way he intended to befriend them, and if they might still look to him for counsel and assistance?