anger.
“It’s a rotten damn system that lets a bounder like Rick turn a man like Mr. Keane off the land he’s had for twenty-five years. I’d like to know what the hell’s behind it. You needn’t tell me he gives a damn what happens to Mara. I’d like to . . . Oh well, what the hell.”
He kicked at the corn husk mat on the flagged porch, and took a deep breath. “I guess I’ll go and try to say something to Mr. Keane. I’ll be seeing you, Grace.”
I didn’t have the courage to point to the open window . . . and I don’t think it would have made any difference in the long run if I had. The things that were happening at Romney were the noxious flowerings of seeds that had been planted and were full grown before Dan and I barged in on them out of the storm-wracked night. Nothing anyone could have done at that point could have averted the doom about to break over Romney . . . any more than we could have stopped the inky black and murky yellow lightning-torn clouds from crashing down their pent-up fury of wind and water.
As Dan disappeared around the wing that shrill cry came again out of the night, and I saw the dark form of a huge bird soar across the box. I went inside, thinking that all in all I wished I’d not come to Romney.
5
Irene and Major Tillyard were standing in front of the bright wood fire burning behind the great old polished brass andirons, in what had been the dining room of the original house but was now a sort of family sitting room, with soft chintz-covered chairs and sofas instead of the formal period pieces of the drawing room across the hall—lovely but not particularly comfortable with its delicate Sheraton sofas and straight-backed fireside chairs. They were still talking about the farm, and they stopped abruptly as I came in.
Irene held out her hands to me.
“Oh, darling, it’s really so nice to have you here—like old times!” she said, smiling. All trace of annoyance and petulance was gone, like a cloud in April. “And I do hope this dreadful weather clears up, because in the morning we’re going to shoot a full Columbia round!”
I’m afraid I blinked, because Major Tillyard smiled.
“Archery, Mrs. Latham,” he said.
“Then that lets me out,” I said—adding to myself, in the expressive jargon of my younger son, “I hope I hope I hope!” Archery is not one of my favorite sports.
“Why Grace, aren’t you awful!” Irene cried. “We really need you! And besides, my dear, it’s awfully good for the figure!”
“I’ll stick to a horse, if you don’t mind.”
Irene shrugged her slim bare shoulders. She certainly, I thought, didn’t look like fifty-five . . . or act it, I added to myself as she said, “Oh, of course, Grace, if you want to spoil—”
Major Tillyard poked the fire a little abruptly, and she broke off.
“Of course you’ll come in, Grace—don’t be silly,” she laughed.
Major Tillyard put down the fire iron. “I think I’ll be getting along, Irene.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry about tonight. Don’t let it upset you, will you, my dear.”
He shook hands with me, and he and Irene moved toward the door. I looked at his broad straight back and thick iron-gray hair, thinking that Irene showed remarkably good judgment at times, and sat down by the fire. As I did I felt a sudden draft on my cheek, and glanced around at the window. And I started, not sure I wasn’t definitely seeing things.
A perfectly mammoth creature had pushed aside the curtains and walked in, blinking two light blue eyes through a ridiculous fringe of long dirty gray hair. I don’t know what, at first sight, I could have thought it was, because quite obviously under the three bags of curly wool it was a dog. He grinned very amiably and wagged his tail. Irene and Major Tillyard in the door both turned, and Irene said, “Oh, there’s Dr. Birdsong,” which seemed a little confusing to me until almost immediately the curtains parted again and a very tall man came in.
He was even bigger than the dog, and looked rather like him, in a slightly different way. He didn’t have as much hair, and it wasn’t gray, except a very little near the temples. His country tweed jacket was rough and baggy, with chamois patches at the elbows, and was definitely for use and not beauty, and his high laced boots and riding breeches were streaked with mud. His hands were enormous, and yet gave an impression of being extraordinarily mobile and sensitive. His eyes, like the dog’s, were a light pale bluish-gray, his face was burned almost black and looked more like corrugated iron than skin. And somewhere about him there was an astonishing quality of detachment, in his eyes probably—as if they seldom looked at the things close by.
He didn’t smile as he strode in through the window, and the dog looking up at him, and apparently realizing that he had been a little previous, took the grin off his face, walked over to the fire and lay down with a solid comfortable grunt, divorcing himself from whatever unpleasantness was about to ensue.
“There’s a tree down in the road, Sidney. You can’t get your car out. I thought if you were ready I’d pick you up.”
The smile died on Irene Winthrop’s face. Whatever she’d started to say went with it. Her lips tightened.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Keane move the tree?” she said sharply. She reached for the needlepoint bell pull hanging from the carved overmantel. “I’ll send—”
“Mr. Keane has been fired, Irene,” the tall man said curtly.
Irene’s delicate face flushed. “That’s silly! There’s no reason for his letting things go just because—”
Dr. Birdsong—I took it that he, not the dog, was the doctor—jammed his ancient felt hat on his head and interrupted her brusquely.
“Some day you’ll find you can’t have your cake and eat it too, Irene.—If you’re ready, Sidney. We can take your car to the tree—mine’s on the other side.”
He strode out. The dog, who apparently had been quite sound asleep, got up and ambled after him.
Irene held out her hand. “Good night, Sidney.” She closed the door sharply, came back to the fireplace and stood looking down into the yellow flames. She was very angry.
“If they think they can bully me into letting that man stay on, they’re wrong,” she said quietly, after a long time. “I must say I can’t understand Sidney Tillyard. He acts as if Alan Keane was completely in the right, stealing from the bank. He wanted to take him back, at the time—goodness knows what would have happened if his Board had let him have his way. Just because I’ve taken his advice from time to time is no reason for him to think he can dictate my affairs.”
“Is he trying to?” I asked. He had seemed to me amazingly patient, that night.
She drew a deep breath and shook her head. “He thinks I ought to give each of the children an allowance, and let them live wherever they please . . . including Mara, for heaven’s sake, who obviously isn’t capable of taking care of herself. He thinks it’s a mistake to divide the estate, and that if I give Rick his share now I’d have him back on my hands in two years.”
“I thought you were going to give Rick an allowance when he married,” I said.
“I
