The chaise drew up at the door of a little cabin, built at the foot of, and, as it actually seemed, against a steep rocky cliff of great height. In summer it was regarded as one of the best among the surrounding lodgings, but now it looked dreary enough. A fishing-boat, set up on one end, formed a kind of sheltering porch to the doorway; while spars, masts, and oars were lashed upon the thatch, to serve as a protection against the dreadful gales of winter.
A childless widow was the only occupant, whose scanty livelihood was eked out by letting lodgings to the summer visitors,—a precarious subsistence, which in bad seasons, and they were not unfrequent, failed altogether. It was with no small share of wonderment that Mary Spellan—or “old Molly,” as the village more usually called her—saw a carriage draw up to the cabin door late of a dark night in winter; nor was this feeling unalloyed by a very strong tincture of suspicion, for Molly was an Antrim woman, and had her proportion of the qualities, good and bad, of the “Black North.”
“They 'll no be makin' a stay on't,” said she to the postboy, who, in his capacity of interpreter, had got down to explain to Molly the requirements of the strangers. “They 'll be here to-day and awa to-morrow, I 'm thenkin',” said she, with habitual and native distrust. “And what for wull I make a 'hottle'”—no greater indignity could be offered to the lodging-house keeper than to compare the accommodation in any respect with that of an hotel—“of my wee bit house, takin' out linen and a' the rest o' it for maybe a day or twa.”
Lady Eleanor, who watched from the window of the chaise the course of the negotiations without hearing any part of the colloquy, was impatient at the slow progress events seemed to take, and supposing that the postboy's demands were made with more regard to their habits than to old Molly's means of accommodation, called out,—
“Tell the good woman that we are easily satisfied; and if the cabin be but clean and quiet—”
“What's the leddie sayin'?” said Molly, who heard only a stray word, and that not overpleasing to her.
“She 's saying it will do very well,” said the postboy, conciliatingly, “and 'tis maybe a whole year she 'll stay with you.”
“Ech, dearee me!” sighed Molly, “it's wearisome enough to hae' them a' the summer, without hae'ing them in the winter too. Tell her to come ben, and see if she likes the place.” And with this not over-courteous proposal, Molly turned her back, and rolled, rather thau walked, into the cabin.
The three little rooms which comprised the whole suite destined for strangers, were, in all their poverty, scrupulously clean; and Molly, gradually thawed by the evident pretensions of her guests, volunteered little additions to the furniture, as she went along, concluding with the very characteristic remark,—
“But ye maun consider, that it's no my habit, or my likin' either, to hae lodgers in the winter; and af ye come, ye maun e'en pay for your whistle, like ither folk.”