Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (14 page)

“The culmination of all true romance,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly, “is marriage. Unless the thought of marriage enters both partners’ heads, you may be sure there will be no permanent happiness.”

“You’re quite right,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.

“And I hope,” said Miss Pettigrew, “you are not contemplating marriage with Nick. I really couldn’t advise it.”

“Lord love you, no,” said Miss LaFosse, shocked. “Nick…married! He wouldn’t be faithful five minutes.”

“I congratulate your acumen,” said Miss Pettigrew. “He would not.”

“But he’s a grand lover,” said Miss LaFosse wistfully.

“No doubt,” said Miss Pettigrew. “All practice makes perfect.”

“He reaches marvellous heights,” pursued Miss LaFosse pleadingly.

“What interests me,” said Miss Pettigrew, “is the staying power.”

“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.

“You see,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“I see,” agreed Miss LaFosse sadly.

“Time you did,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.

“You do damp a girl’s enthusiasm,” sighed Miss LaFosse.

“Only when necessary,” retorted Miss Pettigrew.

“You’re getting so stern,” said Miss LaFosse with a twinkle, “I’ll be afraid of you soon.”

“And very good if you were,” said Miss Pettigrew.

Miss LaFosse chuckled.

“What’s in a drink!”

“Oh!” Miss Pettigrew subsided in a fluster. “Oh, my dear Miss LaFosse…I assure you…you are quite wrong. I was…”

“There…there,” soothed Miss LaFosse. “Just a joke. What about a spot of dinner? What shall I order?”

“Dinner?” said Miss Pettigrew. “For me? Oh no, thank you. I’m much too excited to eat. I should get indigestion and possibly hiccups again and my night would be ruined.”

“I’m not very hungry myself,” agreed Miss LaFosse lazily. “Shall we leave it over then, and have a bite of supper later on?”

“Much the best plan,” concurred Miss Pettigrew.

She poured herself out another cup of tea. This interlude was very pleasant, but it was getting a little protracted. Something should happen soon. She had only known Miss LaFosse for part of a day, but something had happened the whole time. She sat waiting for something to happen now. She would have been gravely disappointed if events had not kept up to standard. She was not a bit surprised when the bell rang. She leaped to her feet at once, expectancy in her eyes, nerves attuned for battle, murder or sudden death. Miss LaFosse made preparations for uprising.

“I’ll go,” said Miss Pettigrew.

But it was only the flowers. Miss Pettigrew slowly returned with the package.

“There,” said Miss LaFosse when she opened the box, “the very thing.”

A single scarlet rose, in a nest of feathery green, glowed with a brilliant colour. Miss LaFosse tried it on Miss Pettigrew’s shoulder.

“Just as Edythe said,” exulted Miss LaFosse. “That one touch of colour against the black gown and the green ear-rings and necklace gives just the right air of…of…! Perfect,” she ended, words failing.

She laid it carefully on the table and sat down again. Suddenly a sense of guilt descended on Miss Pettigrew.

All day she had accepted benefits, chattered in equality with Miss LaFosse, visited Miss LaFosse’s friends. What would Miss LaFosse think when she discovered her real mission? No excuse to say she had tried to tell her. They had been very half-hearted attempts. Obviously, had she really wanted, she could have made the opportunity. There had been numerous periods during the day when it had never even come into her head to try and tell Miss LaFosse. Conscience smote Miss Pettigrew.

She began to tremble, trying to push away the small, clear voice. She wanted to go where they were going tonight, with a pathetic, passionate eagerness. She wanted to visit a night club, to partake of its activities, to be at one with the gay world. Simply and honestly she faced and confessed her abandonment of all the principles that had guided her through life. In one short day, at the first wink of temptation, she had not just fallen, but positively tumbled, from grace. Her long years of virtue counted for nothing. She had never been tempted before. The fleshpots called: the music bewitched: dens of iniquity charmed. She actually wanted to taste again the wonderful drink Tony had given her, which left one with such a sense of security and power. There was no excuse. She could not deny that this way of sin, condemned by parents and principles, was a great deal more pleasant than the lonely path of virtue, and her morals had not withstood the test.

She glanced despairingly round the room. The thought of losing this last, perfect finish to a perfect day rendered her sick with disappointment. But she could accept no further kindness from Miss LaFosse under false pretences. Her conscience had been trained too rigorously.

She came and sat in front of Miss LaFosse.

“There’s a little matter,” began Miss Pettigrew in a husky, quivering voice, “I really think we should get settled before…”

“I had no mother,” said Miss LaFosse.

Miss Pettigrew gaped.

“At least,” amended Miss LaFosse, “there was a woman who brought me into the world. But I didn’t choose her. I don’t miss her.”

“Your mother!” gasped Miss Pettigrew, shocked.

“She wasn’t a very nice woman,” said Miss LaFosse simply. “In fact, she was a very unpleasant woman. You know, the kind that sends shivers down your back when you think of them. Not good for children at all. A very bad influence. Seeing you sitting there, you’re just the kind I’d choose if I had my choice. Not, mind you,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly, “that you’re old enough to be my mother. I know that. But that’s what I feel. You inspire confidence and affection. I’m glad I’ve met you.”

“Oh, my dear!” quavered Miss Pettigrew. “I can’t bear any more kindness. No. I can’t. I’m not used to it.”

Miss Pettigrew’s eyes flooded with moisture.

“If you only knew…” she faltered.

Rat-tat-tat. Bang-bang-bang. Thump-thump-thump, thundered some one’s fist on the door.

“There,” said Miss LaFosse in an annoyed voice. “Who can that be? As if they couldn’t use the bell respectably. Suppose I’ll have to answer it.”

But Miss Pettigrew was on her feet. Her tears had dried like magic. She was electrified, galvanized, quivering like a hound at the scent. That knock heralded no ordinary visitor. Cone was her confession.

She was across the room in a flash. Eyes beaming, face radiant, body tensed, Miss Pettigrew flung open the door.

7.25
PM
—8.28
PM

“H
a!” thundered a loud, masculine voice. “Don’t tell me she’s not in, because I won’t believe it.”

“Come in,” said Miss Pettigrew ecstatically.

The visitor strode into the room: a tall man, in evening dress. Black coat, not properly fastened: silk hat aslant: white muffler, floating loose. A magnificent body, a rugged face, a fighter’s chin, a piercing eye, a stormy expression. A Hercules of a man: a Clark Gable of a man.

He flung off his hat, tore off his muffler, cast gloves on the floor and glared round the room with the quenching, thrilling, piercing, paralysing eye of the traditional strong hero, but not, like him, silent. His gaze fastened on Miss LaFosse.

“So, you little devil,” he said furiously, “I’ve caught up with you at last, have I?”

“Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse.

She did not even rise to greet her guest. She seemed fastened to her chair by pure fright or shock, or dismay, or at least some strong emotion, Miss Pettigrew diagnosed. Strong emotions, however, at the moment, were Miss Pettigrew’s meat. She revelled in them. She got ready to interpose her body between Miss LaFosse and a possible assailant, but the latest visitor whipped past her as if she were not there and towered above Miss LaFosse.

“Well! What have you got to say for yourself?”

“No excuse,” quavered Miss LaFosse; “no excuse at all.”

“I’m glad you’re frank,” he said curtly; “I wouldn’t take even a bilious attack.”

“I never have bilious attacks,” said Miss LaFosse indignantly; “I never overeat. I’ve got my figure to think of.”

“Stand up.”

Miss LaFosse stood up obediently with a glimmer of smiling relief in her eyes, but to her own, and Miss Pettigrew’s complete shock, the irate young man grasped her shoulders and began to shake her soundly.

Miss Pettigrew started forward with a cry of indignation; then she stopped. She didn’t know why. Here was a strange young man maltreating her friend and she simply stood like a stuffed dummy and did nothing about it. Nor did she want to. Miss Pettigrew gasped at herself. But quite suddenly she felt that this magnificent young man was quite dependable, would never really hurt Miss LaFosse and that Miss LaFosse probably deserved all she was getting. Yes. Miss Pettigrew admitted that to herself. Quite frankly she confessed in her innermost mind that much as she adored Miss LaFosse she must in truthfulness acknowledge that her friend would be quite capable of doing some deed worthy of righteous anger and obviously this was a case in point. Her wits, sharpened by the day’s adventures, were rising to amazing heights of discernment. They leaped at understanding. From the small scrap of conversation heard Miss Pettigrew deduced immediately that Miss LaFosse had done something to the young man meriting anger, for which she had no excuse. She had admitted that herself. The punishment then was only just. Having dealt with children all her adult life, and what, after all, was Miss LaFosse but a grown-up child, Miss Pettigrew had a wholesome respect for a little requisite punishment. She decided to await events. Plenty of time to interfere if it became really necessary. First she must endeavour to grasp what it was all about.

The young man ceased shaking Miss LaFosse.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for thirty days. Now what have you got to say?”

“I d…deserved it,” said Miss LaFosse breathlessly, but with surprising meekness.

He gave her a grim glance.

“So that’s the stunt, is it? You needn’t try and get round me.”

“No…no!” said Miss LaFosse hastily.

He loosened his hold.

“Because you can’t do it…not this time.”

“I’m not trying to,” said Miss LaFosse humbly.

He stood back.

“Oh yes, you are, but it won’t work any longer. You’ve made a sap out of me for the last time.”

“Oh, please,” said Miss LaFosse in distress, “don’t say that. Do anything you like. Shake me again.”

“I don’t want to shake you again.”

A smile of relief broke through Miss LaFosse’s agitation.

“I’m so glad. I didn’t really like it.” Her smile became coaxing. “Well, now that’s over, aren’t you going to kiss me now?”

“Oh no, my girl. I don’t share any more.”

Miss LaFosse raised a sudden, startled gaze to his. He answered her unspoken question grimly.

“Yes, I’m through.”

“But…” began Miss LaFosse.

“There’s no more buts, no more evasions, no more excuses. I’ve finished. You can fool me once, but not twice. I don’t stand that from any man…or woman.”

“Oh!” whispered Miss LaFosse.

“I’m only letting you know. I’m a damn fool over you, and you know it, but I’ve got limits. You’ve reached them. You’ve played fast and loose with me for the last time. You either toe the line…or I quit.”

His last words were grim. Miss Pettigrew knew they were true. Felt that Miss LaFosse knew they were true. Miss LaFosse went a little white. Miss Pettigrew came and sat down. Her heart was hammering with excitement. She settled down to the enjoyment of a new situation, but keeping her senses alert to step in and do any rescue work should it be necessary and her powers capable.

“Well,” said the visitor grimly, “I’m still waiting for the explanation.”

Miss LaFosse crumpled into a chair.

“Oh!” wailed Miss LaFosse, “I funked it.”

“Thank you,” said the young man. “I’m glad to learn your opinion of me.”

He ran his hand with an angry gesture through his hair. It was very nice, thick hair, smoothed back in the most correct modern fashion. Not fair, not dark. A comfortable inbetween shade, which left a man a man, without casting him for a blond hero or a dusky villain. He was not exactly young. Not in the twenties. Perhaps the early thirties, but all men, under forty, were young to Miss Pettigrew.

“Oh, please,” implored Miss LaFosse. “It wasn’t that. It was just at the last minute I felt I couldn’t go through. Oh! I can’t explain. I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I dreaded when you should come back.”

“I can quite understand that,” he said calmly. “Deliberately to raise a man’s hopes, ‘til he’s sitting on top of the world, then smash ‘em in smithereens for a new whim, I suppose! It wasn’t a particularly commendable action. If you hadn’t agreed…but you did. That made all the difference.”

Miss LaFosse gave him another pleading look. Suddenly she began to cry a little. The new-comer frowned, then pounced again. He gathered Miss LaFosse in his arms and kissed her. It acted miraculously. Miss LaFosse gave a watery smile through her tears.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she gulped. “I never thought you’d feel…quite like that.”

“Stop making your eyes red or you’ll blame me for that later,” said her kisser peremptorily. “I know you’re just doing it for effect. Unfortunately the effect is telling on a susceptible male. I’ll stop yelling, though I’m not sorry I bawled you out. I’d do it again, under similar circumstances, only there won’t be any similar circumstances. That, I hope, is firmly in your head.”

His voice went a little grim again on the last words. Miss LaFosse looked at him. He looked at Miss LaFosse. He bent and gave her another kiss, then put her on her feet. He frowned at her a moment, then turned and grinned at Miss Pettigrew.

“How-d’you-do? Don’t mind our little skirmish.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Delysia likes an audience. She’s accustomed to it. The tears were for your benefit to make you think I was a brute.”

“Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew in a fluster, caught between loyalty to Miss LaFosse and sympathy for this odd young man.

“Do I look like a brute?”

“No,” said Miss Pettigrew.