The door opened slowly and softly, and a slip-shod beldam peeped out, leaning upon a stick; the head of Betty Williams appeared over the shoulder of this sibyl; Angelina was standing, in a pensive attitude, listening at the cottage window. At this instant the postilion, who was tired of waiting, came whistling up the lane; he carried a trunk on his back, and a bag in his hand. As soon as the old woman saw him, she held up her stick, exclaiming—
“A man! a man!—a ropper and murterer!—Cot suve us! and keep the door fast polted.”—They shut the door instantly.
“What is all this?” said Angelina, with dignified composure.
“A couple of fools, I take it, miss, who are afraid and in tred of roppers,” said the postilion; “put I’ll make ‘em come out, I’ll be pound, plockheads.”—So saying, he went to the door of Angelina Bower, and thundered and kicked at it, speaking all the time very volubly in Welsh. In about a quarter of an hour he made them comprehend that Angelina was a young lady come to visit their mistress: then they came forth curtsying.
“My name’s Betty Williams,” said the girl, who was tying a clean cap under her chin. “Welcome to Llanwaetur, miss!—pe pleased to excuse our keeping hur waiting, and polting the toor, and taking hur for a ghost and a ropper—put we know who you are now—the young lady from London, that we have been told to expect.”
“Oh, then, I have been expected; all’s right—and my Araminta, where is she? where is she?”
“Welcome to Llanwaetur, welcome to Llanwaetur, and Cot pless hur pretty face,” said the old woman, who followed Betty Williams out of the cottage.
“Hur’s my grandmother, miss,” said Betty.
“Very likely—but let me see my Araminta,” cried Angelina: “cruel woman! where is she, I say?”
“Cot pless hur!—Cot pless hur pretty face,” repeated the old woman, curtsying.