The Hunter and the Trapped

by Josephine Bell

  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 ot
her 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 …”

  William recovered his presence of mind. He took Penelope’s glass from Simon, substituting a filled one for the unexpected guest.

  “You surprised us all,” he said, harshly. “I’m afraid Diana didn’t warn me you were coming.”

  Simon thanked him for the drink and turned back to Penelope.

  “May I drink your health properly now?” he asked.

  She was standing half turned away from him and close to John, who had risen, having done as much as he could for her spoiled dress.

  “None of us has drunk that toast yet,” William said, in the same harsh voice. He raised his glass.

  “Penelope!” he said. “Long life, health and happiness!”

  They all drank. Mrs. Allingham held out her glass.

  “Mr. Fawcett,” she said. “Will you please put down my glass for me.”

  Simon turned to her at once, did as she asked and continued to stand over her, asking polite questions about her cottage and its improvements. He seemed to be very fully informed, she thought.

  Meanwhile Hubert, determined to ignore the gatecrasher, whom he was sure had no right to be there, had carried off William into the study next door, meaning to follow his original programme of showing his friend the coloured slides of the cruise.

  Penelope saw him go and tried to stop him. She caught him up at the door of the room.

  “We haven’t time now,” she urged. “We ought to go.”

  Her sole desire was for immediate flight. But her father was obstinate.

  “It won’t take long,” he said. “You can come and help us get ready if you like.”

  She went back to tell John. Together they left the room.

  “What is happening?” asked Mrs. Allingham. “Is the party over?”

  She was bewildered by Simon’s unexpected presence and confused by his manner to her, which was not without charm and a kind of innocence for which she was totally unprepared.

  “They have gone to look at slides,” Diana said, joining them. “Hubert is a fanatical photographer and William has a projector. Hubert will have been developing the beastly things ever since he got back and now must inflict the result on us all. The pictures are always the same, too. Boats and waves and harbours.”

  “I hate waves,” said Simon.

  Mrs. Allingham got up.

  “I think I’d like to see them,” she said. “There won’t be much time. They must be getting on in a few minutes.”

  Diana watched her go.

  “She said that on purpose,” said Simon. “They’re all closing round Penny. It’s amusing, isn’t it?”

  Diana did not think so.

  “Why did you come?” she asked. “It’s madness.”

  “Surely not so serious as that? Actually I forgot there was a party.”

  “But I warned you, specially. Anyway, it was a hopeless time to come. And just to walk in by the front door …”

  “How else should I have arrived? Through the window? Down the chimney?”

  “Don’t be an idiot!”

  His eyes flamed suddenly.

  “Be careful! I cannot be called names!” The flame died, replaced by simple mischief. “I had my key.”

  “Exactly. D’you think William won’t realise that? I ought never to have let you have one. But I thought it would attract less attention – be quieter than the bell ringing when she was in her room, resting. I must have been mad!”

  He shrugged. He was not interested in her fears.

  “Why did you come?” Diana went on, growing more angry still. “What possessed you to see her again now? Are you jealous because she’s engaged to someone else? Can’t you let her go, even now?”

  He stared at her, coldly.

  “How vulgar you can be when you’re angry,” he told her. “Your face is quite different. Ugly, hard, mean. Why do you spoil yourself so often?”

  “Go away!” she said, in a low furious voice. “Go away at once. You should never have come!”

  She went quickly past him out of the room, leaving the door open for his own departure. He heard her open the study door and the surge of voices from within. Then the door was shut.

  When Simon found he was alone he moved slowly to the window and stood there, looking out. He felt sad. Not on his own account, for he was not greatly touched by the rebuff he had suffered. No, his sorrow was all for the poor confused beings he had found in this room. Diana, with her ungovernable passion for him and her insensate jealousy. Dull William and duller Hubert. That stiff young man in the Navy. Poor old Mrs. Allingham, who thought he was the devil incarnate but dared not denounce him except to God on her knees. And Penny. Lovely, foolish, self-torturing Penny …

  He heard her gasp in the room behind him and turned quickly.

  “Diana said you’d gone,” she whispered.

  “Diana likes to give orders. I don’t always obey them.”

  He went closer to her. Penelope did not move.

  “Even she does not own me, you know,” he said, gently.

  His meaning was perfectly clear. Penelope closed her eyes. So Diana was the woman, the beloved mistress he worshipped. Diana, of all people! Middle-aged Diana! She must be years older than he was. No, perhaps not. She was supposed to be much younger than Bill. All the same –

  “Look at me,” Simon said.

  She opened her eyes, but she dared not let him see the thoughts behind them and turned them down to the floor.

  “Why are you still so unhappy?” he persisted. “I came here expecting to find you radiant. I wanted to share in the rejoicing. But here you are, pale and sad and with nothing to say to me.”

  She raised a shrinking glance to him.

  “There is nothing to be said that you don’t know,” she managed to say. “Except that now I know that Diana …”

  He came a step nearer to her.

  “Diana finds fault too often,” he complained. “I’m sick and tired of her continual nagging.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t find fault with me, do you? Poor child, you have never once complained. I owe you something for that.”

  His hands moved to enfold her, to draw her nearer still. “Is it a pretence, this engagement of yours? If it is, you will never be happy.”

  “I am happy now,” she murmured, no longer afraid to look into his eyes. Her whole inner being lay at his feet as he kissed her.

  But Simon, alert and wary, even as he accepted her and acclaimed the renewal of his supremacy, heard the sound of the opening door and had already raised his head and dropped his hands when John appeared in the room.

  Penelope no longer cared. S
he was flying above the world, wrapped in a shining cloud that hid everything but her own exultant self. She moved a little away from Simon, but said nothing.

  “Mrs. Allingham wants her spectacles,” John said. He understood perfectly what had happened. Simon had been quick, but John trained in observation, had been quicker. Simon’s back had been towards him. He had seen Penelope’s face.

  Simon immediately joined in the search for the spectacles and it was he who found the grey leather case on the floor beside Mrs. Allingham’s chair. But when he handed it to John the latter waved it back.

  “Suppose you take them in to her,” he said. “You haven’t seen any of Hubert’s pictures yet, have you?”

  “Unfortunately I’m just leaving,” said Simon, quietly, putting down the spectacle case on a small table. He turned to Penelope.

  “I shall be at the Margot until about nine,” he said and moving unhurried to the door went through it and was gone.

  “Will you take them to her?” John said, pointing to the case.

  Penelope seemed to return from a long way off.

  “Terribly sorry,” she said, her voice going up and down, quite out of control. “Where’s my coat?”

  She looked about her vaguely.

  “I’m sure I took it off in here. Diana didn’t take it – Where on earth?”

  “Your coat is on the back of that chair in the corner,” said John. “Why d’you want it this minute?”

  “Because I’m just going, of course.” She laughed; a wild, artificial mirth that closed John’s mouth into a grim line.

  “I’ll tell your father. It’s certainly time you were off. You’re late already.”

  “No, John!” There was nothing artificial in her sudden panic. “No. I’m going by myself. You mustn’t tell him! Not till I’ve gone.”

  “You can’t do this!”

  The enormity of her proposed action struck him for the first time.

  “I can and I will. I can’t go on with it. I can’t! You know why I can’t!”

  He still made a feeble effort to stop her, aware that he was only helping her resolve.

  “But you can’t possibly do it like this! It’s outrageous!”

  “The whole thing was outrageous from the start. Now it’s over. If anyone wants to know, I shall be at the Margot until nine.”