It Pays to Be Good

by Noel Streatfeild

The doctor was bent over Jim. He didn’t look up.

  “He’ll be all right. Hurry off and get your mother.”

  Flossie stared at the group round Jim, she heard the car move off. Jasmine would be here soon, that was a good thing, perhaps she could do something. She was looking, and feeling, ill; she had fainted when she had been brought to the beach. She had suffered from shock, for she had supposed her last moment had come when Jim, instead of rescuing her, had merely pushed her towards the groin and had then sunk. It was Avis who had pulled her out, Meriel and Lucia had saved their father. She had been unconscious for only a few minutes, but she had lain stretched out with her eyes shut and ears singing for quite a time. When she began to feel better, she was struck by the lack of attention being paid to her and sat up to find that Jim was ill. She had turned her head away—how disgusting to see somebody being sick—and had lain back with a moan hoping to attract some attention to herself. It was when Meriel brought the doctor that she realised that something was seriously wrong. She heard him say to the children that they were not to worry, that he was a heart specialist, and knew just what to do. But the way he snatched open his bag, and got out things, and snapped at his chauffeur to get hold of something to do as a stretcher, made her scared. It was awful sitting doing nothing, the fearful sounds from Jim, and the way the three girls clung together, never a look at her to see if she was all right. The doctor was very tense, but people didn’t die from swimming a little way. All the same, it was awkward he was ill, she’d have to get up to the house and telephone; must make it clear that this had been a real accident. She was thankful to see Derwent and Ossie, but they weren’t paying any attention to her. This was a horrid afternoon.

  The doctor, who had been holding Jim’s pulse, suddenly put down his hand. He got up.

  “My God!” said Derwent. “He’s not dead?”

  “Dead?” Flossie’s voice, a thin, hysterical shriek, reached Mouse and Jasmine as they came down the cliff path. She heard them and turned round. “Oo, here’s Jasmine. Who’s going to tell her?”

  Derwent whispered to Ossie:

  “Stop Mouse and break it to her.”

  Mouse was ahead of Jasmine, she heard the whisper. She was a vivid, gay figure in pink linen. Ossie and Derwent moved quickly between her and Jim’s body. She stood still.

  “Nobody need break it to her, she knows.” She held out her hand behind her and groped for, and found, Jasmine’s. They stood like that while servants from the house and the doctor’s chauffeur covered Jim with a rug and carried him away. Jasmine released her hand.

  “I must go to the children.” She turned to the doctor. “Would you drive me up? I must get there before Jim.”

  Mouse did not seem to notice she had gone, she smiled in a vague way at Derwent and Ossie.

  “Well, chaps, that seems to be that.”

  Ossie’s face twitched.

  “What about you coming to town in my car? I’ll sit in front, you can have it to yourself.”

  Mouse nodded.

  “Yes. See my things are sent on, Derwent, I’ll be in the way here.”

  Flossie’s brain was recovering from the shock of hearing that Jim was dead. Jasmine and the doctor had gone to the house, it wouldn’t be safe to ring up from there. She had best get back to the flat, and get her publicity man to come and see her. Then she had a fearful thought. Where was Mouse going to stay? She, of all people, must never know.

  “Where are you going to stay, Mouse?”

  Mouse seemed to see her for the first time.

  “Oh, you’re here. The flat, of course.”

  “But you can’t, I’ve taken it for another month.”

  Derwent stared at her, horrified.

  “Shut up, Virginia,” said Ossie.

  But Mouse gave a half-giggle.

  “Don’t blame her, she didn’t hold with my illicit ways in life, you can’t expect her to respect them in death.” Suddenly her face crumpled, it was as if her own light remark had been the means of driving home the truth. Her eyes were frenzied, she held her mouth with both hands to check a scream.

  Ossie put his arm round her.

  “Take your car,” he said to Derwent, “and tell my man to bring mine down at once. Run like hell. I’ll look after her.”

  Flossie had supposed herself too weak to move, but to be left disregarded on the beach, catching her death of cold in soaking clothes and nobody caring, gave her strength. Besides, something quite desperate had got to be done. She couldn’t go to town in Ossie’s car because Mouse would be there, and her business must be a secret from them both. Derwent couldn’t drive her up because he mustn’t know either, and anyway, obviously he would have to stay here. She was panting after Derwent when this last thought came to her. She stopped dead, her face radiant. That running figure in front of her wasn’t poor Derwent any more. That was the new Lord Menton.

  In a dark corner of the least frequented of station hotels, Flossie met her publicity agent. He had gathered from the breathless way she had rung him up from Deal that something was wrong. He gave her a drink. He was very sorry for her, everybody must put on a stunt now and then; you couldn’t be blamed if somebody died on you. However, he didn’t take that tone with Flossie, seeing that she was already slightly hysterical. Instead he persuaded her it had been a real accident It was so easy to imagine that you had done a thing on purpose, just because you had discussed it. But it had never really happened. She must be a good, brave girl and not let herself get fanciful. He gave her another drink, and put her into a taxi, and hurried off to Fleet Street to see that she figured in the tragedy in the best possible light.

  It was not till she reached the door of the flat that Flossie remembered that Mouse would be there. Oh well, that didn’t matter now that everything was settled so nicely. She hoped she wouldn’t make a scene. She was sorry for her, of course, but she must realise that if you had affairs with people and they died, you couldn’t possibly expect to be treated as though you were a widow, and she must realise too that, however upset she was, she couldn’t expect to live free in a flat somebody else had paid the rent of. She’d have to hand the money back; it was to be hoped she hadn’t spent it.

  Mouse’s bedroom door was open, and Mouse lying on the bed. She looked up as Flossie came in. Her face was shapeless with crying. Flossie was shocked. No matter what happened, nobody ought to let themselves go like that.

  “Where’s Ossie?” she asked.

  “Gone to get some champagne.”

  “Champagne!” Flossie thought that was no drink in which to drown a sorrow and her voice showed it. “Could you drink it?”

  “I could drink anything.”

  She looked so unspeakably wretched that Flossie was sorry.

  “I say,” she began, “I’m awfully—”

  “Leave it,” Mouse stopped her, “things couldn’t well be worse.”

  Flossie’s eyes widened, an awful suspicion came to her. ‘Couldn’t well be worse?’ No wonder she was upset.

  “You’re not going to have a baby, are you?”

  Mouse began to laugh, one shrill mirthless sound piled on another.

  “No,” she gasped, “God knows when to say ‘joke over.’”

  Two days later the telephone rang. Mouse picked up the receiver. Jasmine’s voice came stuttering over the wire.

  “Are you coming to the funeral, Mouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’re you going with?”

  “By myself.”

  “Don’t do that, come down early and drive with me.”

  There was a pause, then Mouse gave the ghost of a giggle.

  “That ought to hand everyone a nice laugh.”

  Jasmine caught her breath.

  “Well, you see, ducky, I’d like to have you.”

  Mouse gripped the receiver.

&nb
sp; “Macabre, you chaperoning Jim and me for the last time.”

  Her tone was more than Jasmine could stand, her voice broke.

  “Don’t, sweet. Come early. ‘Bye.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Mouse was having her breakfast. Jasmine sat on the end of her bed.

  “It’s grand to have you back. I’d hoped to get down to meet you at Southampton, but I’ve been so busy moving. How was foreign parts?”

  “Very foreign. All alike after the eighteenth port. I take it very kind of you to drop in this early.”

  “Well, I couldn’t face us meeting at Nephew Derwent’s nuptials. Must have a word with you first. You are going this afternoon, I suppose?”

  “Going! I’m being ‘dearest friend of bride.’ I’ve been invited to help her into the going-away dress.”

  “Taking it by and large, she’s got a nerve.”

  “Not at all. She just thinks she’s being kind to poor Mouse. Who told you I was back?”

  “Ossie. You didn’t write much; he’s been my only source of information as to your goings on.”

  “No, it seemed a complete break with everything was indicated.” She poured out her second cup of coffee. “Extraordinary fellow, Ossie. You know the day he walked in here with the tickets for the trip, and the cheque for clothes and everything, he was a revelation to me.”

  Jasmine lit a cigarette, and in the pause she recalled Ossie’s coming to her, his funny shyness. ‘This may seem unusual to you, Lady Menton, but I want to send Mouse away. Perhaps you would use your influence to get her to accept a little help.’ He had coughed to hide his embarrassment. ‘She’s a very unhappy woman.’ The reason for unhappiness was, of course, not mentioned. She glanced at Mouse. The long sea trip seemed to have done its work. There were a few new lines on her face, a few more grey hairs, but her beauty was undimmed; only in her eyes could you see that she had been ravaged by suffering, and they were belied by her smile and the set of her head. It was plain she had not come back with wounds to exhibit. Mouse spread a piece of toast with butter.

  “How’s the bride?”

  “Oh, lovely. Look at the picture papers. When I came past the church this morning it was buzzing with florists, and there were yards of red carpet, and miles of awnings, bell-ringers have been engaged to ring for three hours, and camera men have been lying on the roof of her hotel all night, and are in squadrons outside the church.”

  Mouse giggled.

  “It’s going to be a magnificent affair.”

  “It’s not nearly grand enough for Virginia. She wanted to drive in an open carriage, and she would have liked to have had the streets decorated. After all, royalty isn’t married every day.”

  Mouse sighed appreciatively.

  “She’s a grand girl.”

  “Grand!” Jasmine stuttered with indignation. “When I think of this wedding I want to be sick. Virginal white flowers, ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Heights,’ blessings. It’s indecent, it’s making a mock.”

  “Make a mock nothing,” Mouse said firmly. “Virginia’s one of the few brides who has a right to veils and white draperies. She has earned the blessing of the Church; in spite of every temptation she goes to the altar a virgin.”

  “But in every other way, what a little beast.”

  “In the eyes of the God-fearing she’s good in the only way that matters, and good, mind you, from conviction. She was honestly shocked at the goings on of us others. And, mark you, she’ll be a success as Lady Menton.”

  Jasmine nodded gloomily.

  “Don’t I know it. She’s had several serious talks with me. She says ‘We’—and by that she means royalty and the aristocracy, she belonging to both, you understand—have a duty to the country. She says we stand for the sacredness of home life, and must never forget to set an example to those beneath us.”

  Mouse lit a cigarette.

  “Isn’t that just lovely? How lucky for the country to have people like Virginia to look up to. How about Derwent? Does he have a proper appreciation of the dignity of his station?”

  “He doesn’t think at all. He says he’s so lucky it makes him afraid that something will happen before he gets to the altar. In between thinking how lucky he is, he’s working very hard. Virginia has pulled a wire or two and got him into Jim’s shoes; he’ll finish as a director, shouldn’t wonder.”

  “There isn’t much money, is there?”

  “But there will be. Virginia seems to have some mysterious sources of perfectly reliable information. She has already improved Derwent’s financial position.”

  “What’s happening to you?”

  “There’s enough. The tenants were angels about moving out of the Dower House, and it won’t cost much to keep up. It’s unfortunately near the Place. The girls are being so difficult, you know how intolerant they are at that age, they talk about Virginia as if she’d murdered Jim.”

  “Refreshingly outspoken.”

  Jasmine got up and collected her bag.

  “What are you doing this morning?”

  Mouse hesitated.

  “Had Jim told you about the Elks?”

  “Pa and Ma? I knew vaguely they existed. What are they like? Frightful?”

  “She’s a poor fool, but he’s grand. I’m going down to their house to push her into a wedding garment.”

  “They’re coming to the wedding then?”

  “Yes, Virginia doesn’t know, but they are. I got L.L. to see they were sent an invitation, and he wangled it somehow so that the answer came to him. I’ve borrowed Ossie’s car to fetch them, and old Madame Elise who taught Virginia to dance is giving them lunch and taking them with her to church and reception.”

  “Whom are you going with?”

  “Oh, some place on the bride’s side of the aisle. I thought I might park myself between Ossie and L.L.”

  “Can’t you sit with me? None of the girls are coming. I thought it a mistake to insist, if ever the breach is to be healed.”

  “All right. You’ll find me in the porch at a quarter to two, I’m meeting Mrs. Hodge then to smuggle her in.”

  Jasmine stooped and kissed her.

  “Quarter to two, I’m glad you’re back. What are your plans?”

  “I hope to let the flat, and then I thought I’d wander again and look at a few more ports.”

  Jasmine went to the door.

  “You might do worse than marry Ossie, he’s a nice thing, and simply rolling. See you later.”

  Mouse listened to the front door shutting. Queer. Jasmine had once said about physical love—‘It’s the understanding of each other that comes from it. You’d think with three children Jim and I would have got it, but I hated the business.’ At that time she had discounted the statement, she had thought it was she who was missing the finer shades. Now she knew that Jasmine had never even felt the brush of passing love. Marriage! Ossie!

  Fanny opened her door, her face lit up.

  “Oh, Miss Shane, it is nice to see you again. I have missed you. Did you have a good time? You’re earlier than I expected, but I’ve just done. I’ve got a bit to finish in the bedroom.”

  “That’s all right. Have the clothes come?”

  “Came yesterday. Oh, they are lovely.”

  “You go and finish, I’ll have a word with your husband.”

  George was sorting potatoes. He nodded to Mouse and held one up.

  “See these? All me own growin’.”

  “Aren’t they fine? I’ve come down to help Mrs. Elk to dress and to take you both to the wedding.”

  “Not me. Mrs. Elk’s pleased with the invite, so we won’t say nothin’, but Floss never sent it, I know that. A weddin’ should ’ave the bride’s mother up at the front, and the bride’s father givin’ ’er away. There’s to be none of that, that I’ve ’eard.”

 
“No. I’ve been away, I’ve had nothing to do with the arrangements.”

  “We was pleased to get your post cards. Nice to do a bit of travellin’.” He came over to her and lowered his voice: “Do you know this Lord Menton Floss is marryin’?”

  “Yes, well.”

  “Would you call ’im a good God-fearin’ young chap?”

  Mouse tried to consider Derwent from that point of view.

  “That’s not really how I should think of anybody. But he’s nice.”

  “Does he look after his people right, and make himself a good example in that ’igh state of life to which God ’as called ’im?”

  “God hasn’t called him to it very long; he only came into the title and place last summer when his uncle was drowned.”

  “That was a bad business. It don’t seem right ’er marryin’ ’im somehow when she was the cause of ’im becomin’ ’oo ’e is.”

  “He’s been in love with her for years.”

  “Why did they ’ave to wait for this to ’appen then before they married?”

  “There wasn’t enough money.”

  “Does it seem right to you, Miss Shane?”

  Mouse stared unseeingly at the vegetables in the window.

  “It’s difficult for me to be fair. I knew the late Lord Menton very well.”

  Fanny came through the door from the kitchen.

  “I’m ready to put on me dress. Won’t you change your mind, George?”

  “No.” George went back to his potatoes. “I’ve me book, I shall sit quietly here and follow the service at two o’clock. She’ll have my prayers just as good as she would in the church.”

  “You should come though. They say the church is all done up with white flowers and tubs of oranges. You’d like to see oranges growing.”

  “No. I’m looking after the shop. And don’t you go gettin’ yourself all fussed up, you know how it’ll be with your inside if you get fussin’.”

  Upstairs in the bedroom were laid out a simple but smart grey frock and coat, and there were gloves and a hat. Fanny looked at them trembling with ecstasy.

  “Aren’t they smart? I was so in a fluster at your dressmaker’s that I should have chosen all wrong, but she said to leave it to her. Oh, it was good of you, Miss Shane.” She took off her apron and working skirt and blouse, and began some violent washing in the basin on the stand in the corner. “Before your letter came I’d had the invite, and I didn’t know what to do about clothes, I thought maybe I’d get taken for one of her servants or something, but when I’d been to your dressmaker I came back and I said to Mr. Elk, ‘I’ll have to keep out of sight at the weddin’ or, dressed up the way I’ll be, everybody’ll know I must be a relative.’” She dried her face and hands. “I had a nice wash earlier so that’ll do.” She looked down at her petticoat. “I bought this silk slip special, they say things sit nicer over silk.” Mouse lifted the frock off the bed and put it over her head. She hooked it and pulled down the skirt. Fanny looked anxiously at her stomach. “Of course, my inside being the way it is, I stick out a mite. Would you say it showed to matter?”