MRS. DORRIMAN.
A Novel.
BY THE HON. MRS. HENRY W. CHETWYND,
AUTHOR OF "LIFE IN A GERMAN VILLAGE," "THE DUTCH COUSIN," "A MARCHVIOLET," "BEES AND BUTTERFLIES," ETC., ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON: CHAPMAN and HALL
Limited1886
WESTMINSTER:
PRINTED BY NICHOLS AND SONS,
25, PARLIAMENT STREET.
MRS. DORRIMAN.
CHAPTER I.
There perhaps never was a more bewildered woman than Mrs. Dorriman, alady whose mind was apt to be in an attitude of bewilderment about mostthings in this complex world. The problems of life weighed very heavilyupon her (not only those deeper questions perplexing to scientificminds, and ranging from the consumption of gas, and its unexpectedproportions in domestic economy, to the vexed question of shooting-starsand the influences of natural forces), but she was in a measure contentto remain unenlightened, recognising, with some wisdom, that there wasso very much she could not understand; it was quite hopeless to make aneffort in any direction.
The immediate cause of her present bewilderment was a letter from herbrother. This letter, lying upon her lap, had been read several times,and she held it by one corner daintily, and ruffled her brow as shelooked at it—much as one might face the differential calculus while asyet the previous paths of mathematical intricacy had not been trod. Itwas on the west coast of Scotland, and on a certain day in September,that Mrs. Dorriman was sitting under a large rowan tree—whose scarletberries were beginning to blaze forth in autumnal beauty; from where shesat the sea far away below her was distinctly heard in its incessant andmusical monotony.
Upon one side the fair hills of Skye took every changing hue under theinfluence of sunshine and storm. Every hollow marked at one time by thevivid sunlight, which cast such clear sharp and lovely blue shadows,and again retiring behind a veil of mists; looking so near and soexquisitely coloured before rain, and half concealed by threateningclouds before the bursting of a storm.
Behind Mrs. Dorriman the ground sloped upwards and was well wooded; aburn came rushing and fell down the hill-side in the shape of awaterfall over the cliff; her own house was small, but well-planned, andwas so sheltered that the flowers of spring, always so welcome to anyone with even a faint sense of natural beauty, flourished here toperfection. By the burn-side a walk wound its way, having been cut outof the rock, and it went down to the sea-shore and skirted the clifftill it ended in a patch of grass, where three stones made a secure andcomfortable seat.
Mrs. Dorriman was one of the women whose lives have been pursued byperpetual failure. Her childhood had been a neglected one, her youth hadbeen the same; she was hurried into a marriage with a man much olderthan 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, foradversity is the highest test of love, and if there is no deep affectionthe breath of non-success kills it at once.
She was sorry when he died; but she had a deep-seated feeling that insome way every thing was his own fault—and she blamed him so much, andwas so sorry for herself, that she had no room for pity. Only when hedied and had given one half reproachful, half imploring look, a dimsense of some want in herself and of her injustice came to her, and shehad suddenly bent down and kissed him, and she was always glad of this;she had forgiven hi