This Was Tomorrow (17 page)

“My happiness has nothing to do with it,” said Evadne unsteadily, and she began to gather up and pack away the things left from their picnic that were scattered on the grass round about. “Victor says that our generation can’t afford to do what it likes, it must dedicate itself to the future. Thinking of nothing but my own happiness is a very narrow, selfish way to live. If it happened that through me Victor surrendered and brought all his friends to God it would be a very powerful influence for peace. I must sacrifice everything to that.”

“Even me?” he asked gently, and she paused and looked up at him, mutinous, loving, distressed, and quite distractingly beautiful.

“Even you, if it meant the peace of the world,” she said slowly, and Stephen’s first impulse was to cry, “Oh, rats, come off it, darling,” and reach for her again. Whether rightly or not, he was silent instead, respecting her earnestness, in a dreadful new uncertainty he had never known before with
regard to a woman. He had so nearly succeeded this afternoon in convincing her that she needed him as he wanted her. For the first time she had seemed to glimpse with him the possibilities of love between them. Should he press her now, or should he wait, and let the sweetness of the past hour sink in and work for him? He hesitated, for nothing had ever mattered to him so much before, and the time was gone.

When they reached London the cinemas were open and Stephen wanted to go on to Marble Arch, but Evadne said nervously that she must get home. He glanced at her with speculation, and pondered silently as far as Church Street. Then he said, “Are you
afraid
of her?”

“Who?” said Evadne carefully, her eyes fastened on the road.

“You know who. What would happen if you did go to a film with me now instead of going home?”

“Well, I—said I’d be home by seven.”

“But suppose you weren’t.”

“She might think something had gone wrong—an accident, I mean.”

“Suppose we telephoned, then.”

“N-not tonight. Stevie.”

“Look, honey, I don’t want to badger you, but—
why
not tonight?”

“I said I’d be back for dinner,” she said patiently.

“But suppose you just
weren’t.
If we ’phoned and explained, would she be cross?”

“Well, disappointed, you know, and—” Evadne gave great attention to her driving.

“And what?”

“If you—cared to ask Hermione too, we might—”

“I see.” It was rather obvious that he made no offer to ask Hermione too.

“Sh-she’s been alone all day,” Evadne remarked humbly, as a reason for displeasing him.

“Now don’t for God’s sake start apologizing to
me!
” he said, his irritation all for Hermione, but Evadne set her lips
in a sweet, hurt line and watched the road. Stephen touched her hand briefly, on the wheel. “All right,” he said gently. “It’s been a beautiful day and I’m grateful.”

“Oh, Stevie, I’ll never forget it,” she said tremulously.

“Next Sunday again?” he suggested, and instantly she was cautious.

“I may not have the car next Sunday.”

“I’ve got a car,” he reminded her.

“But Hermione might want me to drive.”

“I see,” he said again.

“Please don’t sound like Victor,” she said unhappily. “Sometimes I think he’s just
jealous
of Hermione.” The car stopped rather jerkily in front of the block of flats where she lived. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, I should have put you down at the corner where you could get a taxi.”

“Meaning I mustn’t come in.”

“N-not tonight. Stephen.”

“Why not?”

“I—wish you wouldn’t—” She sat drooping over the wheel, all the spontaneity gone out of her, and a kind of apprehension in its place, as though she dreaded something ahead of her.

“I’m no better than the rest of them, am I,” he remarked kindly. “I badger you too, only perhaps not quite the same way, and as they no doubt tell you too, for your own good.” He opened the door on his side and got out, came round and opened her door and waited while she stepped down on the curb. “I’m coming up,” he said, and took the picnic basket out of the back of the car. “I want to see what goes on here.”

“I’m afraid there’s no dinner,” said Evadne, watching him helplessly.

“Then what’s the rush to get back at seven?”

“We were going out to the Corner House at Marble Arch.”

“My God.” Stephen turned towards the door, carrying the basket.

“Wh-what are you going to do, Stephen, are you coming with us?”

“Not to the Corner House, no. We’ll put on her hat and go somewhere.”

“Sunday’s a bit difficult,” she suggested.

“I know half a dozen places.”

Evadne put her key in the door and they entered a soundless flat where the air was somehow chilly with tension. There was no welcoming voice, no stir to meet them.

“Anybody home?” Stephen called after a moment, as Evadne seemed incapable of breaking the silence, and after an appreciable pause Hermione said, “Well, good evening,” and appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. Stephen realized that she did not smile or offer her hand, and that she did not so much as glance towards Evadne. She merely stood there, waiting. “Get your hat,” he said imperviously. “Let’s all go out to dinner.”

“Haven’t you two had dinner?” Hermione asked coldly.

“Of course not, it’s only a little after seven.” Stephen set the basket down in the kitchen and stood with his hat in his hand. “Ran into some traffic. Let’s go.”

“I have a headache. You two go on without me.”

“Nonsense, do you good to come out. Besides, we came all the way back to collect you.”

“I’m not dressed to go out.”

“You’re dressed,” said Stephen. “All but your hat. Don’t be all day, now, I’m getting hungry.”

“I’d rather not go, really,” she said between her small white teeth. “You shouldn’t have bothered about me, as late as it is now.” She looked from one to the other slowly, emphasizing her apartness from their irresponsible thoughtlessness.

“Please, Hermione, you know what Sunday traffic is,” Evadne pleaded. “We got here as soon as we could.”

“What time did you leave Richmond?” Hermione inquired, unrelenting, and Evadne began to show signs of complete demoralization.

“I don’t know, I—we didn’t look—we—got talking—”

But why did it matter so, Stephen wondered, watching them. To either of them. It was easy to perceive that this was not just a question of a half hour’s tardiness for dinner. This had roots. This went way beyond what met the eye. Evadne was being called to account for something much more complicated than keeping Hermione waiting for dinner. Wasn’t it possible, he wondered, that her real misdemeanour consisted in the first place of having a beau to go picnicking with; in the second place of having found him sufficiently absorbing to delay her return; and in the third place of wearing, however unconsciously, the sheen and shimmer of being desirable and desired which still remained like invisible Stardust from those kisses in the park?

Stephen was close, he was getting warmer, but the whole thing had not dawned on him yet. He was smart, but he was also modest, for a man in his position. It still did not occur to him that to Hermione the really unforgivable aspect of Evadne’s afternoon was that it had been spent alone in his company to their obvious satisfaction. He still did not realize that Hermione was half witch, reading Evadne like an open book, and that she knew now, as surely as though she had seen it happen, that Stephen had made love to her, that Stephen was in love with her, so that Hermione was full of a truly agonizing anger—with Evadne for attracting Stephen, whose easy magnetism had already wrought on Hermione herself, and with Stephen for being attracted to Evadne, who already had everything. He was still unaware that in her own prickly, dissatisfied, poisonous way Hermione was falling in love with him. And so he went disastrously on being tactful and polite to her, to the further undoing of them all. Jeff would have snubbed her before now and walked out, leaving Evadne to her fate. Stephen set compelling hands on Hermione’s shoulders and turned her towards the bedroom.

“Get your hat like a good girl,” he said tolerantly. “You’re holding up the parade.”

Hermione looked up at him as though about to bite his head off, and then unexpectedly complied. While they waited for
her Stephen leaned up against the wall where he stood in the little foyer, and Evadne wandered into the living-room and sat down on the arm of a chair just inside the door, rather limply.

She was thinking that Stephen meant well, but it was only postponing the reckoning to take Hermione out to dinner now. It was always like this if she went out without Hermione, whether it was with Stephen or Victor or someone quite uninteresting, and whether she got home on time or not. Almost it was not worth going, except that sometimes one forgot for a while, like this afternoon, what was in store, and it was a relief sometimes to be with someone who didn’t always need bolstering up. That was the thing about Stephen, he was happy in himself, he was without misgivings and miseries, he had made life work. It was inspiring to know people like Stephen and Sylvia, even though it made one’s own lot drabber by comparison. Of course, they weren’t doing anyone any Good, or were they? Surely even by her friends’ high standards, the laughter and delight which Stephen’s every performance created in his audiences were worth while. Surely everyone who saw him on the stage was the better and certainly the happier for having seen someone so superlatively good at his job, whatever it might be. Even now, Evadne could not get used to the two Stephens—the brilliant dancing star in the following spotlight, and the casual, ambling man who wanted to make her happy, so that even while he kissed her, even while he stood at a relaxed angle against the wall of her own home, she remembered with a small electric thrill all the dash and skill and authority and excitement contained in that slim, facile presence. And each time things like this happened, each time Hermione turned the screw, the knowledge stirred at the back of Evadne’s unhappiness—Stephen would take me away. And then, hastily—But that’s selfish and wrong. Hermione needs me. Stephen is happy,
anyway.
Yet the knowledge persisted, unruly and comforting.

Hermione had had no intention of joining them at dinner. She had meant to send them away together, feeling guilty and
at outs with each other, while she remained dinnerless in the flat hugging her grievance. And then, when he seemed really to want her to come, she could not resist the chance to watch and listen to him again. She told herself while she put on her hat that she would be on her dignity, anyway, at dinner. She would be distant and indulgent and a little sad, forgiving two heedless children who had hurt her. Later when they had made it up to her enough, she would unbend. Even now, after that unforeseen gust of anger which had swept her at sight of them returning home together, she was not quite ready to face the fact that while her confessed love for Jeff was Evadne’s idea, wished on her as it were, as part of her surrender, this feeling for Stephen was something of her own, secret and unsuspected and unwelcome. For Stephen had kissed Evadne today, she was sure. And now she wouldn’t touch him herself with a barge-pole. Or would she?

Of course there was still Victor, she was thinking, while she put on her hat. Better if they had gone to the Olympics in Germany, but it was too late for that now. Nevertheless, Victor might still be of some use if one could get at him. If Victor persuaded Evadne to go to Germany again, that would put Stephen in the cart. He couldn’t leave London, with the show running. He would try to talk Evadne out of going, especially if Victor were going at the same time they would be in Germany. Evadne was obstinate, and would quarrel with Stephen if he persisted. And if they parted on a quarrel, and were separated a while, the thing would die a natural death and Evadne would be hers again. Stephen would not mourn long for any woman, Hermione was confident, no man with his opportunities would. She knew that whatever his intentions, Victor was her ally against Stephen. Tomorrow, while Evadne was out shopping, she would ring Victor up and advise him to start something, or Stephen would cut him out entirely….

It was a beautiful weekend in late August and Farthingale had never looked lovelier. Tea was being served on the lawn, and the family circle had been enlarged, if not enlivened, by the arrival of a party from the Hall, consisting of Lord Enstone, his son Mark, and his younger daughter Mona, who was Evadne’s age but content merely to exist and enjoy herself and consequently was no trouble to anybody. Bracken and Dinah had brought what Bracken now described as the kids—Jeff, Stephen, and Sylvia—by motor from London, pausing at Sunningdale to collect Mab from her always preoccupied parents, who were more than willing to lend her to Virginia at any time for an indefinite stay. And Rosalind and Charles had driven over from Cleeve.

In deference to the glorious weather and the idyllic scene—good-looking men in country flannels, pretty, cherished women in light flowered frocks, the handsome tea-table with its polished silver, steaming kettle, and delicious food—the conversation studiously avoided the Spanish Civil War, which had turned very nasty, and the arrival in England of the Abyssinian Emperor as a defeated exile. Virginia, who was writing a book about her girlhood and marriage before the war to one of Lord Enstone’s youngest brothers, had started them off in a reminiscent trend, and Dinah, sister to Enstone and to Virginia’s husband, joined her in thinking up stories of the old days—stories, however, which skilfully skirted the tragic circumstances of Rosalind’s marriage to Prince Conrad which had also taken place about that time. Then Charles said in his gentle drawl, “And don’t forget about the part your dressmakers used to play, Virginia—I distinctly remember being smuggled into that Hanover Square place one time to see Rosalind while she was there for a fitting. It was my only chance to talk to her without being chased off by her mamma.”

“Phoebe arranged that,” Rosalind said with a smile. “But I think it was done quite a lot then. The girls in the shop stood guard, and passed notes, and took messages—all in the most
completely innocent way, you know,” she added with an amused glance at the attentive younger generation. “Just tissue-paper intrigue—no one nowadays can believe how utterly helpless we were then even to communicate with a man who wasn’t approved of at home.”