Lionel Cloade was giving his irritable nervous laugh as he talked to Frances Cloade. ‘Oh, come, Frances,’ he said. ‘You can’t expect me to believe you really think that—let’s go in.’
They went into the shabby and rather ugly dining-room. Jeremy and Frances, Lionel and Katherine, Adela, Lynn and Rowley. A family party of Cloades—with two outsiders. For Rosaleen Cloade, though she bore the name, had not become a Cloade as Frances and Katherine had done.
She was the stranger, ill at ease, nervous. And David—David was the outlaw. By necessity, but also by choice. Lynn was thinking these things as she took her place at the table.
There were waves in the air of feeling—a strong electrical current of—what was it? Hate? Could it really be hate?
Something at any rate—destructive.
Lynn thought suddenly, ‘But that’s what’s the matter everywhere. I’ve noticed it ever since I got home. It’s the aftermath war has left. Ill will. Ill feeling. It’s everywhere. On railways and buses and in shops and amongst workers and clerks and even agricultural labourers. And I suppose worse in mines and factories. Ill will. But here it’s more than that. Here it’s particular. It’s meant!’
And she thought, shocked: ‘Do we hate them so much? These strangers who have taken what we think is ours?’
And then—‘No, not yet. We might—but not yet. No, it’s they who hate us.’
It seemed to her so overwhelming a discovery that she sat silent thinking about it and forgetting to talk to David Hunter who was sitting beside her.
Presently he said: ‘Thinking out something?’
His voice was quite pleasant, slightly amused, but she felt conscience-stricken. He might think that she was going out of her way to be ill-mannered.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. I was having thoughts about the state of the world.’
David said coolly, ‘How extremely unoriginal!’
‘Yes, it is rather. We are all so earnest nowadays. And it doesn’t seem to do much good either.’
‘It is usually more practical to wish to do harm. We’ve thought up one or two rather practical gadgets in that line during the last few years—including that pièce de résistance, the Atom Bomb.’
‘That was what I was thinking about—oh, I don’t mean the Atom Bomb. I meant ill will. Definite practical ill will.’
David said calmly:
‘Ill will certainly—but I rather take issue to the word practical. They were more practical about it in the Middle Ages.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Black magic generally. Ill wishing. Wax figures. Spells at the turn of the moon. Killing off your neighbour’s cattle. Killing off your neighbour himself.’
‘You don’t really believe there was such a thing as black magic?’ asked Lynn incredulously.
‘Perhaps not. But at any rate people did try hard. Nowadays, well—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘With all the ill will in the world you and your family can’t do much about Rosaleen and myself, can you?’
Lynn’s head went back with a jerk. Suddenly she was enjoying herself.
‘It’s a little late in the day for that,’ she said politely.
David Hunter laughed. He, too, sounded as though he were enjoying himself.
‘Meaning we’ve got away with the booty? Yes, we’re sitting pretty all right.’
‘And you get a kick out of it!’
‘Out of having a lot of money? I’ll say we do.’
‘I didn’t mean only the money. I meant out of us.’
‘Out of having scored off you? Well, perhaps. You’d all have been pretty smug and complacent about the old boy’s cash. Looked upon it as practically in your pockets already.’
Lynn said:
‘You must remember that we’d been taught to think so for years. Taught not to save, not to think of the future—encouraged to go ahead with all sorts of schemes and projects.’
(Rowley, she thought, Rowley and the farm.)
‘Only one thing, in fact, that you hadn’t learnt,’ said David pleasantly.
‘What’s that?’
‘That nothing’s safe.’
‘Lynn,’ cried Aunt Katherine, leaning forward from the head of the table, ‘one of Mrs Lester’s controls is a fourth-dynasty priest. He’s told us such wonderful things. You and I, Lynn, must have a long talk. Egypt, I feel, must have affected you psychically.’
Dr Cloade said sharply:
‘Lynn’s had better things to do than play about with all this superstitious tomfoolery.’
‘You are so biased, Lionel,’ said his wife.
Lynn smiled at her aunt—then sat silent with the refrain of the words David had spoken swimming in her brain.
‘Nothing’s safe…’
There were people who lived in such a world—people to whom everything was dangerous. David Hunter was such a person… It was not the world that Lynn had been brought up in—but it was a world that held attractions for her nevertheless.
David said presently in the same low amused voice:
‘Are we still on speaking terms?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Good. And do you still grudge Rosaleen and myself our ill-gotten access to wealth?’
‘Yes,’ said Lynn with spirit.
‘Splendid. What are you going to do about it?’
‘Buy some wax and practise black magic!’
He laughed.
‘Oh, no, you won’t do that. You aren’t one of those who rely on old outmoded methods. Your methods will be modern and probably very efficient. But you won’t win.’
‘What makes you think there is going to be a fight? Haven’t we all accepted the inevitable?’
‘You all behave beautifully. It is very amusing.’
‘Why,’ said Lynn, in a low tone, ‘do you hate us?’
Something flickered in those dark unfathomable eyes.
‘I couldn’t possibly make you understand.’
