“Ye may think, Miss Ross, there was plenty said about it in the countryside. Rich folk said it wasna right, and puir folk said it wasna right; but Kirstin guarded her young sister so, that naebody daured mint a word of ill—it was only spite and ill-nature.
“Maybe, Miss Ross, your maid will carry ben the tray? or I can cry upon Sarah.”
Miss Crankie lifted up her voice and called at its loudest pitch for her handmaiden. Sarah entered, and cleared away the tea equipage with Jacky’s tardy assistance. Jacky was by no means pleased to find her attendance no longer necessary; she had managed to hear a good deal of the story, and thirsted anxiously for its conclusion.
“Bring me my basket, Sarah,” said Miss Crankie. “Miss Ross, ye’ll excuse me if I take my work. I have no will to be idle—it’s an even down punishment to me.”
Mrs. Yammer crossed her hands languidly upon her lap and sighed. Sarah returned, bearing a capacious work-basket, from which Miss Crankie took a white cotton stocking, in which were various promising holes. “If ye want onything of this kind done, I’ll be very glad, Miss Ross—I’m a special guid hand.”
Anne thanked her.
“But your’e wearying for the end of my story, I see,” said Miss Crankie, “just let me get my needle threaded.”
The needle was threaded—the stocking was drawn upon Miss Crankie’s arm—the black turban nodded in good-humored indication of having settled itself comfortably—and the story was resumed.
“About that time, when young Redheugh was at his very chiefest with the Lillies, and folk said he was going to be married upon Marion, a gentleman came to stay here awhile for the benefit of the sea-side. His wife was a bit delicate young thing—they said he wasna ower guid to her. They lived on the other side of the town, and their name was Aytoun. Mr. Rutherford and him had gotten acquaint in Edinburgh, and for awhile they were great cronies. Patrick Lillie could not bide this stranger gentleman—what for I dinna ken—but folk said Redheugh and him had some bit tifft of an outcast about him; onyway it made no difference in their friendship.
“But one July morning, Miss Ross, we were a’ startled maist out of our senses: there was an awfu’ story got up of a dead man being found by the waterside, just on the skirts of yon muckle wood that runs down close by the sea, and who should this be but the stranger gentleman, Mr. Aytoun. Somebody had shot him like a coward frae behind, and when they looked among the bushes, lo! there was a gun lying, and whose name do you think was on’t? just Mr. Rutherford’s, of Redheugh.