The Hunter and the Trapped (6 page)

“News?” Simon looked from one to the other, noting Diana's instant angry flush.

“Of Penelope's engagement,” the older woman went on.

“He's probably seen it already,” Diana said, quickly, and added, “Penelope may have told him herself.”

“I thought she was enduring the rigours of a sailing holiday with her father,” said Simon, stiffly. He was unwilling to let Diana know that her news was a surprise to him, for this reversed the usual situation between them. “She is,” Mrs. Allingham told him, expanding into a full account of the engagement, as she had learned it from Hubert Dane's sister.

“I must congratulate her,” said Simon at the end, giving Mrs. Allingham his most open, most charming smile. “But it looks as if we should not see much more of her here at college.”

He glanced about him, received a signal from across the room, took his leave politely and left Mrs. Allingham and Diana in a small knot of strangers, the latter furious, the former disturbed and feeling quite out of her depth. Readymade opinions, she realised, not for the first time, were liable to shocks when faced by facts. The impact of Simon's complex personality made her former views look thin and rather cheap. This produced in her a kind of shrinking fear of him she had not known before.

Simon left the college as early as he could. He took a bus part of the way home and walked the rest, thinking about Penelope and particularly considering the fact that he had altogether missed this news.

Penelope had not written to him to announce her engagement. He was sorry about this. He was very fond of her, he told himself, ready to share her present joy. He felt unjustly excluded and this made him very sad. It was the old, old story. Life could be such fun – and such hell. People would concentrate on the hell, which they insisted upon building for themselves, instead of upon the fun, where everyone could be friendly and happy and fulfil themselves, as he did with Diana, when she was in a good mood. Which was not always the case, though what was biting her today he could not imagine.

He sighed deeply as he walked along. This fearful possessive instinct in women. He always came up against it. Why could they not enjoy him as he enjoyed them, without wanting to own him? This was a normal masculine reaction in himself, wasn't it? He smiled a little and found himself murmuring, aloud “… anything in the world I wanted to be. But better to stand aside and watch. One of the best brains … original mind …”

People here and there turned their heads as he passed. He gave them his boyish smile and saw their faces clear as they smiled back.

Penelope. Pretty charming Penelope. Giving her broken heart to a boy she scarcely knew. Or was it mended? He devoutly hoped so.

By the time he reached his flat he had decided that Penelope was cured, that she was going to be gloriously happy – for a time – because no happiness lasted very long and marital happiness perhaps ten years or less – but happy now at any rate and he himself was absolved.

He wanted to tell George of this satisfactory outcome, but remembered as soon as the telephone began to ring in his friend's house that George was out of the country. Disappointed and now vaguely upset he went over to the fireplace to look at himself in the wall mirror that hung above it.

Gradually, as his eyes lingered on the image there, his inner disturbance died away and an ineffable calm took its place. Here was certainty in a world of doubt, truth in a world of lies, the supreme power of acceptance in a world of rejection. At the first and last shrine of his separate existence Simon worshipped, wrapping about him in a tight confining robe the swaddling clothes of his infancy.

A week later the Danes were back in London. Penelope found a great pile of congratulatory letters waiting for her and was no sooner in the house than the telephone kept her running to answer it, distracting her from her unpacking and all the rest of the process of settling down again after a month's holiday.

Not that she felt at all inclined to settle. Her engagement, occurring as it did, one moonlit night in a small harbour opposite the Porquerelle islands, had seemed a return to life, a blessed release from the strain and misery of the early summer. But now her mood changed. Away from the small, shut-off community on board the yacht she realised that apart from sailing she knew nothing very much of Richard's interests, habits, opinions or normal life ashore. He was a young, aspiring and not unsuccessful barrister. His parents were little more than acquaintances of her father. She found herself thinking tenderly of Richard in dirty jeans and a very heavy Swedish sweater and the next minute being almost afraid to meet him in ordinary clothes.

But a meeting and an uncomfortably formal one at that was to take place the next day. The Carringtons had asked her father and herself to dinner. Richard's married sister and her husband were to be present. In fact she was to be exhibited to the Carringtons and the engagement celebrated, signed, sealed and delivered. She thought of this with a feeling of revulsion she struggled to disperse.

One of the many telephone calls came from Diana. What splendid news, Diana said, in a voice that sounded warm and sincere. How pleased Hubert would be. The Carringtons were delightful people. William came across them occasionally: she had once been to a party at their house.

Penelope let her run on. It was obvious that Diana hardly knew the Carringtons at all, but what did that matter?

“When are we going to see you – and the ring?” Diana asked.

“I don't know. Richard's doing something about the ring today. We only got back yesterday evening. Daddy and I are going to dinner there – to the parents' house, I mean – tomorrow. I'm to have the ring, then.”

How like Hubert, Diana thought. Everything had to be formal, everything must be buttoned up and made fast. Would Penelope stand for that?

“How exciting,” Diana answered. “It'll be a splendid dinner, I expect. The Carringtons have a lovely house. Why don't you and Hubert call in here on your way? It will, literally be on your way, won't it? Have a drink with us to fortify you for the ordeal. Not that I think you'll find it that.”

“It's certainly an idea,” Penelope answered. “I know I shall need propping up.”

“Nonsense. But we'll expect you about half-past six. That do?”

“If I can persuade Daddy to play.”

“He must be eating out of your hand at the moment.”

Penelope's curt goodbye and the end of the call made Diana regret her last remark, which on thinking it over she decided had been far too near the bone, not at all tactful, nor in that good taste which she always sought to cultivate. However, it was likely that Penny and Hubert would turn up, so she announced their coming to William and his mother that evening.

“Oh,” said William and fell silent.

“What's the matter?”

“Only John's back, too. From Gib. Three weeks leave and then posted to H.M.S.
Excellent
.”

“What ship is that?” asked Mrs. Allingham.

“It isn't. It's a shore establishment at Portsmouth.”

“Does this mean you've asked John here?” Diana said, seeing that William's sudden gloom was not relieved.

“Afraid so. He'd heard or read about Penny's engagement. He didn't want to ring her up until he knew a bit more about it. I don't know that he wants to ring her up at all, poor chap. He's taking it very hard.”

“So you've asked him to come here tomorrow evening and unless I put one side or the other off he'll actually meet Penny and that'll be most awkward.”

“It'll be more than awkward,” said William. “It will grieve Penny and be hell for John.”

“It will get them both over a painful necessity in the quickest possible way,” said Mrs. Allingham, briskly. “I disapprove of this modern wish to spare people every kind of necessary suffering.”

“Is suffering ever necessary?” asked Diana.

“Of course it is. As a doctor's wife you should know that. And salutary, too. And a formal occasion – I'm thinking particularly of weddings and funerals – is an excellent way of giving dignity, relief and a ritual outlet for deep feelings, aside altogether from the support and consolation of religion.”

“I'm not considering Penny's engagement as a sort of funeral,” said Diana, angrily.

“We were talking about John's hopes, which must now die,” said William, as he saw his mother's answering flush.

The two women fell silent, with the problem quite unresolved. In fact Diana determined to do nothing about it. William had invited his nephew, she had invited the Danes. Let what would happen. No lasting damage could occur to anyone.

John arrived at six, to find his great-aunt sitting by the open windows, reading. She put her book down when he came in and he stooped to kiss her.

“Haven't seen you for ages,” he said, smiling, for he was fond of her in spite of her foibles, by which he meant her religious predilections. “How are the drains?”

“Being taken past my gate, but not yet into the cottage, I'm afraid.”

“No chance of getting out of this oven yet, then?”

“No. The children are very good to me. I don't go out much. Walking on pavements makes my ankles swell. Just the heat. William says my heart's all right.”

“Good.”

He turned away from her, looking about the room.

“Diana came in late,” Mrs. Allingham said, calmly. “She's changing. She won't be long.”

He nodded, turning away to look at an unfamiliar print on the wall.

“Penny's engagement must be a sad blow to you, my dear,” the old woman said, in the same calm voice. “I think you ought to know she and her father are coming in for a few minutes this evening.”

“Here?” His voice was strained.

“I'm afraid so. Diana arranged it before she knew you were back.” She paused and then said, softly, “I'm very sorry for your disappointment. Perhaps she was really too young when you first met her.”

He nodded, without looking round.

“Her mother had just died. She was staying with Bill and Di. She was sixteen and all to pieces. Her first holidays from school with no mother to gossip to about the term and everything. A poor little white frozen face. I remember the enormous relief the first time I made her laugh.”

“And then you fell in love with her?”

“I suppose it does date from that time – from the start. We have most things in common. Had – I mean.”

Presently Diana came in with a tray of glasses and bottles. John took it from her and when he had laid it down went over to kiss her cheek.

“You look wonderful, Di,” he said, meaning it. Her figure was perfect still, her dress charming, her face unlined and just now in the anticipation of the party, lit with pleasure.

“Flatterer,” she said. “You look pretty good yourself. I hope you'll be around for a bit.” She glanced across at Mrs. Allingham. “Does he know?”

“Yes, he knows,” the old woman said, quietly.

The bell rang, checking her next words. But Diana saw in John's face that he was well prepared.

“That's probably …” she was beginning, but he stopped her.

“Let me answer it,” he said, firmly, as he walked out of the room.

“Poor John,” Diana sighed. “Some girls have no sense.”

Mrs. Allingham said nothing.

If Penelope was embarrassed by John's presence she did not show it. She came into the drawing room pulling off her silk evening coat as she did so. The embroidered top of her short evening dress glittered in the last slanting sunlight as she crossed the floor to greet Mrs. Allingham. John thought bitterly that he had never seen her look so beautiful. He turned away to help Diana distribute drinks.

William arrived shortly afterwards and though the talk was general at first, by degrees the two younger members found themselves excluded and brought together. They struggled for a few minutes with trivialities but at last their eyes met and seeing the pain in his Penelope's own filled with tears.

“I'm sorry,” she said, stupidly.

“To hell with that. You've every right … It just came as a bit of a shock after all those letters you wrote me about noble renunciation and so on.”

“I had to.”

“Write me full accounts or fancy yourself in love again?”

She was roused by this.

“It isn't fancy. I'm sorry I did write so often.”

“Hard to break the schoolgirl habit, I suppose?” he said, savagely. “As the old lady said just now, we knew each other too soon.”

“Have you been discussing me with
her
?”

“Why not? Everyone gets discussed when matrimony is in the offing. You wait till the college gossip comes round to you. That'll be quite something.”

They were so intent on the explosive situation between them that neither heard the drawing room door open. In any case they had their backs to it. But Diana heard and looked across Hubert Dane's shoulder and saw Simon, framed by the open doorway, his head up, his dark eyes eager, arrogant, compelling, waiting for the company to turn and acknowledge him.

She stared back, both furious and terrified. It was the last thing she had expected; it was unbelievably reckless. It was a trap with no way out.

Catching her eye, Simon smiled. Then his light clear voice struck into every heart.

“To Penelope! Long life and happiness!”

The girl gave a frightened cry and her hand, which had been conveying her glass to her lips, shook violently, so that the champagne in it splashed the front of her dress.

All eyes turned to her. John was down on his knees, mopping vigorously at the silk with his handkerchief. Penelope stood rigid, with a white face and shaking hands. Simon was beside her in an instant, taking the glass, apologising profusely, solicitous, half-laughing.

“I startled you! How dreadful! No idea you hadn't seen me – So terribly sorry …”