This Was Tomorrow (20 page)

So long as no one
knew,
Mab told herself, she would be all right. So long as no one sympathized. If she could just manage not to cry and make a fuss and give herself away….

And then they asked her to be bridesmaid.

It was a great honour, she was well aware, and there was no way out of it, short of dropping dead. That meant she would have to stand up during the ceremony where everyone could see her, and not show that for Jeff to marry someone else, even though it was Sylvia, was just about going to kill her. In order not to disgrace him she must do her part with dignity and ease, because he must be happy at all costs, and it would only distress him to know that he had broken her heart….

So Mab went patiently through the fittings for her pink bridesmaid’s dress, and spent all her savings on a wedding present—a silver bonbon dish chosen with Miss Sim’s assistance—and
there went her last chance, she supposed, of getting a ticket to America herself. And Jeff would be gone a whole year….

Her inconspicuous, self-contained misery had not gone unnoticed by the two people most concerned. Jeff wanted Sylvia to talk to her, but Sylvia wisely said no, it must come from him, for she was on sufferance only and couldn’t put herself forward. And so, a few days before the wedding, Jeff and Mab went for a walk in the woods on the far side of the stream which bordered the lawn. For a while they talked about the weather and the Abdication, making conversation in a way that was unnatural to them. Then Mab said, with an effort at matter-of-factness, “You must take your notebooks with you to New York—the ones about Williamsburg. I’ll give them back to you, in case you have time to write the book now.”

Jeff had thought of the same thing, but was unwilling to ask her for them, so he considered her suggestion very near to mind-reading, and said uncomfortably, “Would you like me to write the book, if I can?”

“Oh, yes, please do—I have one of Phoebe’s books, and she wrote my name in it on the front page. It’s an autographed copy,” she added with satisfaction. “Like having complimentary tickets to Stephen’s show, only more permanent, in a way.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Jeff. “I can do better than either of them. I’ll dedicate my book to you.” She glanced up at him, not quite sure what that might entail, and he explained, “On the page following the title page, we’ll put
For
Mab,
in print.”

“In
print?
”

“In every copy. And then in your own presentation copy I’ll write
For
Mab,
with
love.
Of course, you’re taking a chance, my first book may be a dismal flop, you can’t tell.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, looking down at her feet scuffing through the brown leaves. “I mean—I’d still be proud.”

“And of course, on the other hand, putting your name in it might bring me luck,” he remarked lightly.

“Me too,” she answered, with her face turned away.

After a minute Jeff sat down on a log and pulled her down by one hand beside him.

“Honey,” he said gently, “I know how you feel about my going away like this. But don’t take it too hard. We’re going to miss each other, but it won’t be for ever. Look, honey—this comes from Sylvia too, but she wanted me to say it, because we’re old friends, you and I—how about my having a little session with your mother and try to fix it so that you could come with us when we sail next month? We’re going down to Williamsburg before rehearsals start, to see Sylvia’s people, and—you could take Miss Sim along and live in my house there for a little while if you like.”

“No, thank you, Jeff.”

“Rather not?” he asked sympathetically. “Well, it was just an idea—some other time, maybe.”

She nodded, her throat too tight for speech, still not looking at him. A bright drop fell on the fur collar of her coat, and they both ignored it.

“You don’t hold this against Sylvia, do you, honey. We grew up together, since the time we were your age I guess we’ve been in love with each other—”

She shook her head, turned away, so that he could not see her face.

“Some day,” he said, “not too many years from now I’ll be coming to your wedding. Promise to wait for me to get there, won’t you, no matter where I am. Promise to let me look him over first, won’t you.”

There won’t be any wedding, she thought, turned from him, though he knew now that she was crying. But you mustn’t say that, you mustn’t make a fuss. You must let him go, and not make a fuss. A year isn’t long. I can still see him sometimes, all our lives, even if he’s Sylvia’s husband. He’ll always come back to England, unless—

She faced him suddenly, her cheeks wet and shining with tears.

“Jeff—if you should be in America and a war began, don’t come back. Don’t come back and get killed!”

“What kind of thing is that to say?” he asked, appalled, and got out his handkerchief and wiped her face. “What kind of heel do you take me for, to run out on a war? You wouldn’t think much of me, you know you wouldn’t, if I stayed in America because there was a war over here.”

“But they’ll drop bombs on London,” said Mab with quivering lips. “Granny says the children will all be sent to Farthingale, but you—”

“Oh, what a world it is,” said Jeff, heartsick. “Honey, if there’s a war you’re the one who will be in America, I’ll see to that.”

“Oh,
no!
”
cried Mab. “I’m not a coward!”

“Well, neither am I, what do you know about that,” said Jeff. “So if there’s a war, we’ll ride it out somehow, wherever it finds us. And it won’t come for a while yet, anyway. Bracken says not for a year or two. By then I’ll be back on the job over here, and Stephen will bring over his new show, war or no war. In the meantime, I’ll write to you every Sunday afternoon, and you do the same for me, is that a deal?”

He put his arms round the small straight figure and drew her over against his shoulder. Mab caught at his coat with one hand and buried herself against the size and warmth and tenderness of him, shaking with suppressed sobs.

“There,” he said, holding her. “There, now, I know—it looks like a long time to me too, to be away from England—but a year goes—look how this last one’s gone—first thing you know it’s Christmas again—I know, Mab, I know, I wish we could do it some other way—”

And holding her, feeling her smallness and the dignity of her grief, he thought, But she’s a
child,
she’ll get over this—it’s worse than I thought, though, I mind it myself, much worse than I thought—what
is
this, between us, almost as though she wasn’t a child at all—if it wasn’t for Sylvia—but that’s crazy—shall I feel like this when Mab marries—serve me right if I did….

Stephen by now was going almost out of his mind over Evadne’s behaviour, for suddenly with no apparent reason she had become impossible to pin down for any sort of engagement worth having, and when he did catch up with her she was absentminded, non-committal, and maddeningly remote. One of the most piteous aspects of being in love is the unreasoning fear, when things seem to have gone wrong, that one is oneself unwittingly to blame, and Stephen asked himself all the foolish questions familiar to one in his situation—Have I done anything, Did I say something, What have
I
failed
to do or say—the sort of thing that is likely go on all night. His conscience was clear, and his intentions the most virtuous possible. And yet it could only appear that he had somehow offended Evadne and was being sent to Coventry for his sins. She assured him it was nothing of the kind, but whatever it was did not clear up with time, and he began to wonder if Hermione had contrived to undermine him in a really disastrous way, or if the often malicious haze of rumour which surrounds any stage celebrity had contributed to his undoing.

So sudden a withdrawal on her part was especially confusing to him after the definite progress he had made during the picnic at Richmond. That day she had rested in his arms with confidence and returned his kiss in a way all her own, which left him in no doubt that so far as she understood love it was himself that she loved. Since Richmond he had not regarded Victor as a dangerous rival in that respect, however much time and effort she might devote to his conversion to the cause she so obstinately believed in. And yet, all of a sudden it was as though the day at Richmond had never happened. And while ordinary human jealousy did not now enter in, Stephen did feel a growing uneasiness over some malignant influence which he could not bring to light.

Evadne was, it is true, profoundly unhappy, but she did not for a moment lay any blame at Stephen’s door. For one thing, Hermione had abruptly given up sneaking off to the theatre
and was again hanging about the flat in the old way, aimless and self-centred and bored, so that Evadne’s own engagements were again an embarrassment and she sometimes gave them up and stayed listlessly at home herself in order to avoid a different kind of unpleasantness if she went out. This state of affairs was most unhealthy for everyone concerned, but no one outside the flat was in any position to stop it. Worse, the companionship which had once existed between the two girls was now overlaid by remorse and humiliation respectively, and they enacted an elaborate pretence that the scene about the theatre programme had never taken place, though it had become almost impossible to mention Stephen’s name.

During the past autumn Evadne had been wholly caught up in the glittering social swirl which surrounded the German Embassy in Carlton House Terrace. Lavish entertainments took place there, and were given in return by some of the wealthiest and most highly-placed people in London. Although she had not suceeded in inveigling her uncle Lord Enstone either into attending one of the Embassy functions or lending her the Hall to entertain her own guests at a weekend, nobody had given up hope—nobody, that is, unacquainted with Lord Enstone—and anyway, Evadne was welcome for her own sake and had unfortunately even caught Ribbentrop’s eye.

Feeling that Stephen’s world was not closed to her for ever on account of Hermione, and that she must find salvation somewhere from the pervading sense of loss which threatened to submerge her, she had thrown herself with more than her former zeal into her belief in her Cause. She had not known until he was suddenly set beyond her reach how large a place Stephen had begun to fill in her private scheme of things. And while Victor rather rattled about in Stephen’s niche, he was the one she chose to place there, because of her wish to believe that through Victor she could reach the higher powers in Germany and spread the doctrine which assumed and demanded a frank acceptance by nations as by individuals of the standards of absolute honesty, absolute purity, absolute unselfishness, and daily obedience to God’s specific directions.

In the exalted state of mind she had managed to attain in self-defence against the wreck Hermione had made of life at the flat, she could only regard Sylvia’s wedding as a tiresome interlude, and arrived at Farthingale on the day before the ceremony armoured in guidance, purged of individual sinful desire, and full of loving, solicitous fellowship—though falling a little short of the radiant jollity recommended by the credo. Stephen would be there, too, which she dreaded beyond words, and Hermione came along with her and shared a bedroom, which was the cross she had to bear, having lent her own room to Sylvia and the trousseau. And because she was overstrung and near the breaking-point with strain and ill-digested rhetoric about guilt and sin, she was over-aggressive and over-sensitive in every direction and drove everybody almost mad by talking too much about things no one had any desire to contemplate, at least out loud.

She went for Lord Enstone the first night before dinner, before he had even had a drink, in an ill-advised attempt to persuade him to lend his countenance (and decorations) to a full-dress affair at the German Embassy early in the new year. Lord Enstone boiled up at the mere idea, and expressed himself at some length in his usual resounding style. Evadne in turn lost her temper and called him a narrow-minded old frump, to which he retorted that she was a disgrace to the family name, by God, and there was a general row, which Virginia was another fifteen minutes in bringing to order.

Jeff, accepting gratefully one of the cocktails which had been hastily sent for soon after the fracas began, caught Stephen’s astonished eyes with a rueful smile. Poor Steve. Evadne was right off the deep end again, and it was bound to be a shock to anyone who was trying to live his life on the assumption that she could be depended on to behave like a human being. Here was where Stephen got disillusioned at last, Jeff thought, and it was going to be tough.

He raised his eyes from shuddering contemplation of his very welcome drink, resolved to see Stephen through if it killed them, even if it postponed his own wedding, and saw that
irrepressible chump approaching a still simmering Evadne with a glass in each hand. Asking for it. Poor Steve. Everything crumbling round his ears tonight. Well, might as well get it over with. That’s the way Evadne was. It had to come home to him some time.

“No, thank you,” said Evadne coldly to the proffered glass.

“Do you good,” said Stephen.

“I never take anything.”

“I know. That’s a mistake.”

“Well, I’ll—make my own mistakes.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of ’em?”

“Yes,” said Evadne, as though she had just discovered it, gazing at him with admiration and surprise. “Yes, I’m sick and tired of everything this minute.”

“I know. Have a drink.”

She wavered, looking from him to the glass and back again, breathing a little fast, on edge, ready to bite and scratch, ready for tears, ready (if only the circumstances had permitted) to be kissed and mastered.

“What is that?” she asked suspiciously of the glass in his hand.

“Daiquiri. One of Bracken’s best.”

“I’ve never had one of those.”

“I know. That’s what I mean.” His eyes held hers above the glasses which occupied his hands. He was laughing at her, but his eyes were compassionate. Her own filled with tears even while he looked, and she reached out delicately and took one of the glasses, as she might accept with reckless bravado a dose of fatal poison.