Miles Tremenhere (Complete)

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