Mrs. Yammer’s house promised well. It was seated upon a gentle elevation—its front, at least, for the elevation made a very abrupt descent, and so procured that the rooms which were on the ground-floor before, should be the second story behind. In front ran the road leading to the country town, beyond there were some brief intervening fields, and then the sands. It was not above ten minutes walk from the immediate shore. At some little distance further on, there stood a house close to the water, standing up, gaunt and tall, from among a few trees. In the bright, living spring-day, it had a spectral, desolate look about it. Anne remarked it with some curiosity as she glanced round; but Mrs. Aytoun had already knocked, and she had not time to look again.
The door was opened by an energetic little servant, who ushered the ladies into an airy, lightsome parlor, with which Alice Aytoun was in ecstasies. One window looked out on the sea—the other, in a corner of the room, had a pleasant view of the fresh green country road, and glimpse of the village of Aberford itself in the distance; the furniture was very tolerable—the whole room particularly clean.
“O, Anne!” exclaimed Alice Aytoun, “I will come to see you every week!”
A little woman bustled into the room. She had on an old silk gown, curiously japanned by long service, and possessing in an uncommon degree the faculty of rustling—a comical, little, quick, merry, eccentric face—some curls which looked exceedingly like bits of twisted wire, covered by a clean cap of embroidered muslin, with a very plain border of well-darned lace. Mrs. Aytoun hesitated. To call this little person “Mrs.” anything, was palpably absurd; yet they had asked for Mrs. Yammer.
“It’s no me, it’s my sister,” said the brisk little person before them. “I’m Miss Crankie. Will ye sit down ladies? I am very glad to see you.”
Mrs. Aytoun sat down—little Alice concealed her laugh by looking steadfastly down the road, at the distant roofs of Aberford, and Anne took a chair beside her.
“Is’t no a grand prospect?” said Miss Crankie, “a’ the Firth before us, and the town at our right hand—a young lady that was here last simmer said to Tammie (that’s my sister, Mrs. Yammer, her name’s Thomasine—we call her Tammie for shortness,) ‘If it wasna for breaking the tenth command, I would covert ye your house, Mrs. Yammer,’—and so dry, and free from drafts, and every way guid for an invalid. It’s uncommonly weel likit.”
“It seems a very nice house,” said Mrs. Aytoun. “Are your rooms disengaged, Miss Crankie?”
“For what time was ye wanting them, Mem?” said Miss Crankie. “There’s young Mrs. Mavis is to be here in July, and Miss Todd was speaking of bringing ower her brother’s bairns in August—but I’m aye fond to oblige a lady—for what time was ye wanting them?”
“This young lady, Miss Ross”—Miss Crankie honored Anne with a queer nod and a smile, which very nearly upset the gravity of Alice, and put Anne’s own in jeopardy, “desires to have lodgings in the neighborhood for this month, and, perhaps, May.—What do you think, my dear? will you need them longer?”