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——"