Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (3 page)

“I’m glad,” said Miss Pettigrew simply.

After that they were friends and Miss LaFosse, tactfully, ignored the tears.

“About…” began Miss Pettigrew again.

“It’s because you’re so understanding,” broke in Miss LaFosse eagerly. “I felt it at once. I’m very good at first impressions. Here’s a woman, I thought, who wouldn’t let another woman down.”

“No. I wouldn’t do that,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“I knew it. I’ve trespassed on your kindness a lot, I know, but don’t you think you could stay a bit? I mean, Nick might be here any minute. I’d appreciate it a lot.”

“Stay,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse pleadingly.

“If…if I could be of any assistance,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“You see, Nick’s a very dangerous person. That’s why he hadn’t to learn of Phil. He’s more money than Phil. He’s more influence than Phil. He might quite easily do something that might hurt Phil. I couldn’t have that happen. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair. After all, I led Phil on. Phil’s willing to back me in a show. Nick won’t. He’s too jealous. He won’t help me an inch with my career, and however much you like a man you still want your career. So you see I couldn’t have Nick trying to hurt Phil.”

“No,” agreed Miss Pettigrew firmly. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“I know all the bad things there are to know about Nick, but it’s no use. When he’s there I can’t resist him. I’ve been trying to for a long time. He’s been away for three weeks and I’ve survived quite beautifully, so I thought now or never is the time to break. That’s why I want you to stay. Meet him alone and I know I’m lost. Already I can feel quivers of expectation. So you see, when I waver, and I know I’ll waver, I want you to be strong for me.”

Miss Pettigrew now forgot all about her original errand. For the first time for twenty years some one really wanted her for herself alone, not for her meagre scholarly qualifications. For the first time for twenty years she was herself, a woman, not a paid automaton. She was so intoxicated with pride she would have condoned far worse sins than Miss LaFosse having two young men in love with her. She put it like that. She became at once judicial, admonitory and questioning.

“I wouldn’t think of advising normally,” said Miss Pettigrew, “but I’m a great deal older than you and shall act in the place of a mother. If you are afraid of this new young man, wouldn’t it be easy to sever all connexion with him? I mean, he can’t do anything to you. Just fix your mind on that.”

“I know,” said Miss LaFosse sadly, “but you don’t quite understand yet.”

“I always considered I had a very receptive intelligence,” hinted Miss Pettigrew falsely.

“I know you have,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “I see you will understand.”

She leaned forward.

“Have you ever,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly, “had strange feelings in your stomach when a man kissed you?”

“Where,” thought Miss Pettigrew wildly, “have I read that there is something in the stomach that responds to osculation. Or was it the stomach? It doesn’t matter. I must reassure her.”

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Miss Pettigrew weakly. “I understand that it is a scientific fact that the stomach…”

“I’m not alarmed,” said Miss LaFosse. “That’s just it. I love it. It’s no use. I can’t escape him. He just looks at me and I’m wax in his hands.”

“A firm will…” began Miss Pettigrew hesitatingly.

“I’m a rabbit,” said Miss LaFosse, “and he’s a snake. When a snake fixes a rabbit with its eyes, the rabbit has no will. It stays there. It wants to stay there, even if it does mean its death.”

“Oh, not death,” said Miss Pettigrew, shocked.

“Worse than that,” said Miss LaFosse.

She got to her feet abruptly, went into the bedroom and returned with a small packet, which she opened and placed on Miss Pettigrew’s knees.

“Do you know what that is?”

“It looks,” said Miss Pettigrew cautiously, “very like a Beecham’s Powder. Very good, I understand, for nerves, stomach and rheumatism.”

“That’s cocaine,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Oh no! No!”

Terrified, aghast, thrilled, Miss Pettigrew stared at the innocent-looking powder. Drugs, the White Slave Traffic, wicked dives of iniquity, typified in Miss Pettigrew’s mind by red plush and gilt and men with sinister black moustaches, roamed in wild array through her mind. What dangerous den of vice had she discovered? She must fly before she lost her virtue. Then her common sense unhappily reminded her that no one, now, would care to deprive her of that possession. It was Miss LaFosse who was in danger. She must save her. She jumped to her feet, tore into the kitchen, scattered the powder down the sink and returned triumphant.

“There!” she said breathlessly. “That bit of temptation is beyond your reach now.”

She sat down weakly.

“Tell me,” she said in imploring accents. “You have not Contracted The Habit?”

“No,” said Miss LaFosse. “I haven’t taken any yet. If I did, Michael might see. There’s no flies on Michael. If he got to know he’d want to beat the daylight out of me. He’s liable to beat the daylight out of me. Then he’d be off to murder the man that gave it me.”

“Michael!” said Miss Pettigrew faintly. “Not another young man?”

“Oh, no!” denied Miss LaFosse hastily. “Not a bit like that.”

She stared at the fire.

“Michael,” explained Miss LaFosse gloomily, “wants to marry me.”

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew weakly.

“A woman’s got to look out for these men,” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “If you don’t you’ll find yourself before the altar before you know where you are, and then where are you?”

Bang went all Miss Pettigrew’s cherished beliefs: scattered her naive imaginings that only the men dreaded the altar: gone for ever her former unsophisticated outlook. “I’ve lived too secluded a life,” thought Miss Pettigrew. “I’ve not appreciated how my own sex has advanced. It’s time I realized it.”

She ought to have said, “My dear, a good man’s love is not to be scorned.” But she didn’t. She shut her mouth with a snap. None of that weak woman stuff here. She saw how ridiculous had been her wild thoughts of protecting Miss LaFosse. Miss Pettigrew sat up.

“You’ve said it, baby,” said Miss Pettigrew calmly, happily, blissfully.

“Eh!” said Miss LaFosse.

“American slang,” explained Miss Pettigrew. “I heard it at the pictures.”

“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.

“I have always longed,” explained Miss Pettigrew, “sometimes to use slang. To let myself go, you understand. But I could never permit myself. Because of the children, you know. They might have heard.”

“Oh, quite,” said Miss LaFosse bewildered.

“I’m glad you understand,” said Miss Pettigrew simply.

“I’m glad you understand about Nick.”

“Of course,” said Miss Pettigrew.

She raised her head.

“He’s wicked and handsome and fascinating,” said Miss Pettigrew in a clear voice, “but he’s life and excitement and thrills.”

“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse.

“And this good young man, this Michael, who wants to marry you, has all the virtues, but he’s dull. He has no fire…no imagination. He would stifle your spirit. You want colour, life, music. He would offer you a…a house in surburbia,” ended Miss Pettigrew brilliantly.

Miss LaFosse gave her a quick look under her lashes.

“Well…” began Miss LaFosse guiltily, “I don’t know that…”

“Neither do I,” said Miss Pettigrew simply. “I cannot advise you. It would be impertinent. My own life has been a failure. How could I advise others?”

“Oh,” said Miss LaFosse. She said nothing more.

“You look,” said Miss Pettigrew shyly, “so lovely in that…that article of clothing. I can quite understand all the young men falling in love with you. I don’t think, my dear, you need decide about your future yet.”

Miss LaFosse leaned forward, a smile parting her delightful mouth.

“Do you think so?” she asked eagerly. “I kept it on deliberately. You know, I think there’s something sort of, well, especially fetching about a négligé, don’t you think? And men are so difficult in the morning.”

From her one tremendous experience of living in a house where the eldest daughter was about to be married, Miss Pettigrew agreed sagely.

“A…a sort of wanton attraction.” Miss Pettigrew blushed for her adjective. “Very hard for the men to resist.”

“You understand perfectly,” said Miss LaFosse.

Miss Pettigrew suddenly remembered. She gasped in distress.

“But, Miss LaFosse,” said Miss Pettigrew in agitation, “you’re slipping already. You mustn’t do it. You shouldn’t want to be attractive. You should dress your plainest. You should try and repel him.”

“I know,” confessed Miss LaFosse guiltily, “but I just can’t help…”

They heard the faint sound of a key being gently inserted in the lock. They each gave a wild glance at the other. Then Miss Pettigrew was treated to a brilliant piece of acting. Miss LaFosse lay back quickly.

“I always consider,” said Miss LaFosse in a lazy, languid voice, “that blue suits me best. It brings out the colour of my eyes.”

The door opened and shut. Miss Pettigrew sat in dumb admiration while surprise, unbelief, joy in turns took deceitful possession of Miss LaFosse’s face. She jumped to her feet. There was a flutter of draperies, a rush across the room with outstretched arms.

“Nick,” cried Miss LaFosse.

Miss Pettigrew averted her eyes hastily.

“Oh dear!” thought Miss Pettigrew. “Not…not again…so publicly. And I always thought they exaggerated kisses on the films.”

11.35
AM
—12.52
PM

M
iss Lafosse disengaged herself from the newcomer’s arms and Miss Pettigrew saw him clearly for the first time. Graceful, lithe, beautifully poised body. Dark, vivid looks: a perfection of feature and colouring rare in a man. Brilliant, piercing eyes of a dark bluish-purple colour: a beautiful, cruel mouth, above which a small black moustache gave him a look of sophistication and a subtle air of degeneracy that had its own appeal. Something predatory in his expression: something fascinating and inescapable in his personality.

Miss Pettigrew rose slowly from her chair with a queer feeling of helplessness. She understood immediately Miss LaFosse’s subjection. It only needed one look. She had seen his counterpart a dozen times on the films, young, fascinating, irresistible to women, supremely assured of his power, utterly callous when the moment’s fancy passed. She had seen the heroine a dozen times nearly lose happiness because of his attentions. But there was no hero to save Miss LaFosse.

“Queer,” thought Miss Pettigrew helplessly, “one reads about these men. One sees them on the films. One never thinks to meet them in daily life, but they do exist after all.”

Miss LaFosse stood away from her visitor. Her cat’s look of contentment after cream became tinged with a nervous tension. Nick now noticed Miss Pettigrew. His face immediately darkened. He flung Miss LaFosse an angry, questioning glance.

“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse. “This is my friend…my friend…Alice.”

She gathered herself together and made a more polite introduction.

“Alice, meet Nick. Nick, this is my friend Alice.”

“How-do-you-do?” asked Miss Pettigrew politely.

“How do?” said Nick curtly.

His glance flicked over her and Miss Pettigrew became aware at once of her age, her dowdy clothes, her clumsy figure, her wispy hair, her sallow complexion. She flushed a painful red. Her mind disliked him at once: her emotions were enslaved.

It wasn’t only good looks. His looks were merely an extra, naturally helpful but not necessary. It was something in the man himself. The room was in an instant filled with his presence. All the women of any company would at once be rivals for his notice. Perhaps it was an aura that sent out waves of challenge to the female in every woman. Miss Pettigrew felt it. Miss Pettigrew responded to it. She couldn’t help it. Her feminine susceptibilities simply turned traitor on her and she would have given ten years of her life for him to kiss her as he had kissed Miss LaFosse. She almost did hate Miss LaFosse for her youth, her beauty, her charm. Not for long, though. She was not as stupid as all that.

He was not good. Miss Pettigrew knew that: from what Miss LaFosse had told her and from something about the man himself. That was why he was so fascinating. Miss Pettigrew’s intelligence was quite up to the subtle attraction of a spice of wickedness against the dullness of too much virtue.

“Oh dear!” she thought. “These men. They’re wicked, but it doesn’t matter. They simply leave the good men standing still. If only Michael had been a little less good and proper he might have had a chance, but as it is, against a man like this, what ordinary man has a look in? It’s no use, we women just can’t help ourselves. When it comes to love we’re born adventurers.”

She sighed. The problem was going to be a difficult one. She quite forgot in her excitement that any minute she might be ejected summarily. She had now completely identified herself with Miss LaFosse and felt she had known her all her life.

Miss LaFosse was standing eyeing them both a little nervously. Her smile had lost its lovely assurance and had that faintly placating nervousness about it of a woman who longs for, yet doubts, her complete power over a man.

“Come and sit down,” said Miss LaFosse to Nick propitiatingly.

“Oh, my dear,” thought Miss Pettigrew, “that other manner is much the best. A…a sort of regal indifference. This kind of creature respects that. The minute he thinks you’re all his, you’ll lose him.”

Her worldly wisdom almost dumbfounded her. She had to call him in her mind creature, upstart, mountebank, to save herself falling in love with him. If he had only once looked at her, kissed her, the way he had Miss LaFosse, she knew she would have been his slave.

“Who would ever have thought it,” worried Miss Pettigrew, “at my age? I am a very stupid woman. As if I didn’t know he thinks I’m an old back number and wants me away.”

In truth the very air round Nick was thick with anger at her presence. He had come jealously prepared to find Miss LaFosse not alone, but he had not expected a Miss Pettigrew. This old fool seemed set for the day. Miss Pettigrew felt these waves of thought. Suddenly all her old deprecating nervousness crowded back on her.