Anne of Windy Poplars - L. M. Montgomery [58]
‘If this lasts…’ said Lewis.
But it didn’t. As suddenly as it had come up it was over, and the sun was shining on the wet, glistening trees. Dazzling glimpses of blue sky appeared between the torn white clouds. Far away they could see a hill still dim with rain, but below them the cup of the valley seemed to brim over with peach-tinted mists. The woods around were pranked out with a sparkle and glitter as of spring-time, and a bird began to sing in the big maple over the forge as if he was cheated into believing it really was spring-time, so amazingly fresh and sweet did the world seem all at once.
‘Let’s explore this,’ said Anne, when they resumed their tramp, looking along a little side road running between old rail fences smothered in golden-rod.
‘I don’t think there’s anybody living along that road,’ said Lewis doubtfully. ‘I think it’s only a road running down to the harbour.’
‘Never mind. Let’s go along it. I’ve always had a weakness for side roads – something off the beaten track, lost and green and lonely. Smell the wet grass, Lewis. Besides, I feel in my bones that there is a house on it… a certain kind of a house… a very snappable house.’
Anne’s bones did not deceive here. Soon there was a house – and a snappable house to boot. It was a quaint, old-fashioned one, low in the eaves, with square, small-paned windows. Big willows stretched patriarchal arms over it, and an apparent wilderness of perennials and shrubs crowded all about it. It was weather-grey and shabby, but the big barns beyond it were snug and prosperous-looking, up to date in every respect.
‘I’ve always heard, Miss Shirley, that when a man’s barns are better than his house it’s a sign that his income exceeds his expenditure,’ said Lewis, as they sauntered up the deep-rutted, grassy lane.
‘I should think it was a sign that he thought more of his horses than of his family,’ laughed Anne. ‘I’m not expecting a subscription to our club here, but that’s the most likely house for a prize contest we’ve encountered yet. It’s greyness won’t matter in a photograph.’
‘This lane doesn’t look as if it were much travelled,’ said Lewis, with a shrug. ‘Evidently the folks who live here aren’t strongly sociable. I’m afraid we’ll find they don’t even know what a dramatic club is. Anyhow, I’m going to secure my picture before we rouse any of them from their lair.’
The house seemed deserted, but after the picture was taken they opened a little white gate, crossed the yard, and knocked on a faded blue kitchen door, the front door evidently being like that of Windy Willows, more for show than for use – if a door literally hidden in Virginia creeper could be said to be for show.
They expected at least the civility which they had hitherto met in their calls, whether backed up by generosity or not. Consequently they were decidedly taken aback when the door was jerked open and on the threshold appeared, not the smiling farmer’s wife or daughter they had expected to see, but a tall, broad-shouldered man of fifty, with grizzled hair and bushy eyebrows, who demanded unceremoniously, ‘What do you want?’
‘We have called hoping to interest you in our High School Dramatic Club,’ began Anne, rather lamely. But she was spared further effort.
‘Never heard of it. Don’t want to hear about it. Nothing to do with it,’ was the uncompromising interruption, and the door was promptly shut in their faces.
‘I believe we’ve been snubbed,’ said Anne, as they walked away.
‘Nice amiable gentleman, that,’ grinned Lewis. ‘I’m sorry for his wife if he has one.’
‘I don’t think he can have, or she would civilize him a trifle,’ said Anne, trying to recover her shattered poise.