Summer by Edith Wharton
page 53 of 198 (26%)
page 53 of 198 (26%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
a somewhat forced defiance; for in reality it was shame that kept her
silent. Suddenly she lifted her hand and pointed to the sky. "There's a storm coming up." He followed her glance and smiled. "Is it that scrap of cloud among the pines that frightens you?" "It's over the Mountain; and a cloud over the Mountain always means trouble." "Oh, I don't believe half the bad things you all say of the Mountain! But anyhow, we'll get down to the brown house before the rain comes." He was not far wrong, for only a few isolated drops had fallen when they turned into the road under the shaggy flank of Porcupine, and came upon the brown house. It stood alone beside a swamp bordered with alder thickets and tall bulrushes. Not another dwelling was in sight, and it was hard to guess what motive could have actuated the early settler who had made his home in so unfriendly a spot. Charity had picked up enough of her companion's erudition to understand what had attracted him to the house. She noticed the fan-shaped tracery of the broken light above the door, the flutings of the paintless pilasters at the corners, and the round window set in the gable; and she knew that, for reasons that still escaped her, these were things to be admired and recorded. Still, they had seen other houses far more "typical" (the word was Harney's); and as he threw the reins on the horse's neck he said with a slight shiver of repugnance: "We won't stay |
|