Miss Million's Maid Part 53

To the right of him sat the author of all our troubles, Mr. Julius Rattenheimer.

I suppose all German Jews aren't odious! I suppose all German Jews aren't thick-nosed and oily skinned, with eyes like two blackberries sunk very deep in a pan of dough! I suppose they don't all run to "bulges" inside their waistcoats and over their collars, and above and below their flashing rings? I suppose they don't all talk with their hands?

No, I suppose it isn't fair to judge the whole race by one specimen.

He became wildly excited during the proceedings. Four or five times he interrupted the reading of the charge. He gesticulated, pointing at Miss Million, and crying: "Yes! Yes! She's in the pay of this udder one. Do you see? This girl Smith, that we find out has an a.s.sumed name, vot?

Easy to see who is the head of the firma----

"Yes; she is the beauty vot would not have her boxes looked at. Coming to a hotel mit empty boxes, vot does that look like, yes? Two young girls, very shabby, and presently tog demselves out in the most s.e.xbensive clothes. How they get them, no?"

The magistrate broke in severely with something about "What Mr.

Rattenheimer had to say would be attended to presently."

"I say get the girl, and do not let her to be at large whoever say they will pay for her. Get this woman Lovelace; she is the one we want,"

vociferated the awful little Hebrew; a little later on I think it was, but the whole police-court scene is one hideous confusion to me now.

"Don't let her to esgabe through our hands, this girl, Beatrice Lovelace----"

My name, my real name, seemed to echo and resound all through that dreadful place. I didn't know before that I had always, at the bottom of my heart, been proud of the old name.

Yes! Even if it has been brought down to belonging to a family of nouveaux-pauvres, who are neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring. Even if it is like having a complete motoring-kit, and no earthly chance of ever possessing a motor to wear it in!

Even so, it's a name that belonged to generation after generation of brave fighters; men who have served under Nelson and Wellington, Clive and Roberts!

It's their blood, theirs and that of the women who loved them, that ran hot and angry in my veins to-day, flushing my cheeks with scarlet fury to hear that name profaned in the mouth of a little stuttering, jewel-grabbing alien, who's never had a sword, or even a rifle, in his hand!

I turned my indignant eyes from him. And my eyes met, across the court, the eyes of another woman who wears the name of Lovelace!

Heavens! There was my Aunt Anastasia, sitting bolt upright in the gallery and listening to the case. Her face was whiter than Million's, and her lips were an almost imperceptible line across it!

How did she know? How had she come there? I didn't at that moment realise the truth--namely, that the Scotland Yard officials had been busy with their inquiries, not only at what Miss Million calls the Hotel "Sizzle," but also at what used to be my home at No. 45 Laburnum Grove, Putney, S.W.

Poor Aunt Anastasia, hearing that her niece was "wanted by the police"

for robbery, must have received a shock forty times worse than that of my letter informing her that I had become our ex-servant's maid!

But, as I say, here she was in court ... seeing the pair of us in the dock, listening to the account of the circ.u.mstances that really did look black against us.

Oh, that unfortunate flight of Miss Million's into Suss.e.x! That still more unfortunate flight of her maid's after her, leaving no address!

Aunt Anastasia, in pale horror, was listening to it all. That was the last straw.

It seemed to me nothing after that when, from where I stood tense in the dock, I recognised in the blurred pink speckle of faces against the grimy walls of the court the face of another person that I knew.

A blonde, manly face, grave as that of the young American, but with a less unself-conscious gravity.

The face of Mr. Reginald Brace, the manager of Miss Million's bank, who wants to be the manager of me--no! I mustn't make these cheap jokes about the steady and sterling and utterly English character of the young man who loves me and who wishes--still wishes!--to marry me.

For he has behaved in a way that ought to take any wish to make jokes about him away from any girl!

He has been so splendid--so "decent"!

You know, when bail was asked for, he stepped forward--he who is usually so deliberate in his movements!--quite as quickly as the Honourable Jim.

How he--the Honourable Jim--had 300 to dispose of at a moment's notice is one of these mysteries that I suppose I never shall solve.

Still, he is one of the sureties for us, and my Mr. Brace is another.

The third is Miss Vi Va.s.sity, who produced, "to dazzle the old boy," a rustling sheaf of notes and a sliding, gleaming handful of sovereigns from the gold mesh bag, as well as her blue cheque-book and a smile that was a perfect guarantee of opulence.

Let me see, what came next? We were "released," of course, and I remember standing on the pavement outside the doors of that detestable place, I still holding Miss Million mechanically by the arm and finding ourselves the centre of a group of our friends.

The group surrounding us two criminals on the pavement outside the police-court consisted of Miss Vi Va.s.sity, who was very showy, cheery, and encouraging; Mr. Hiram P. Jessop, very protective of his cousin; the Honourable James Burke; Mr. Brace, and one or two theatrical people who had recognised London's Love, and had come over to exchange loud greetings with her.

On the outskirts of this talking, gesticulating crowd of people there appeared a tall, rigidly erect feminine figure in grey tweed, and a black hat that managed to be at the same time unutterably frumpy and "the hat of a lady."

It was, of course, the hat of my Aunt Anastasia. Over the upholstered shoulder of Miss Million's American cousin I caught her eye. I then saw her thin lips p.r.o.nouncing my name:

"Beatrice."

I moved away from Mr. Burke, who was standing very close to me, and went up to her. What to say to her I did not know.

But she spoke first, in the very quiet, very concentrated tone of voice that she always used in the old days when I was "in for a row."

"Beatrice, you will come home with me at once."

It was not so much an order as a stated fact. People who put their wishes in that way are not accustomed to be disobeyed.

My Aunt Anastasia didn't think for one moment that I should disobey her.

She imagined that I should at once leave this crowd of extraordinary people, for I saw her glance of utter disapproval sweeping them all! She imagined that I should return with her to the little nouveau-pauvre villa at Putney and listen like a lamb to all she had to say.

Six months ago I should have done this, of course. But now--too much had happened in between. I had seen too many other people, too many aspects of life that was not the tiny stereoscopic view of things as they appear to the Aunt Anastasias of this world.

I realised that I was a woman, and that this other woman, who had dominated me for so long, had no claim upon me now.

I said gently and quietly, but quite firmly: "I am very sorry, Aunt Anastasia, but I can't come just now."

"What do you mean, Beatrice?" this icily. "You don't seem to see that you are singularly fortunate in having a home still open to you," said my aunt. "After the disgrace that you have brought, this morning, upon our family----"

"What's all this? What's all this?" broke in the cheerful, unabashed voice of Miss Vi Va.s.sity.

That lady had broken away from her theatrical friends--young men with soft hats and clean-cut features--and, accompanied by her usual inevitable jingle of gold hanging charms and toys and knick-knacks--had turned to me.

She caught my arm in her plump, white-gloved hand and beamed good-naturedly upon my frozen aunt.

"Who's your lady friend, Smithie, my dear?" demanded London's Love, who had never looked more showily vulgar.

The grimy background of street and police-court walls seemed to throw up the sudden ins-and-outs of her sumptuous, rather short-legged figure, topped by that glittering hair and finished off by a pair of fantastically high-heeled French boots of the finest and whitest kid.

No wonder my fastidious aunt gazed upon her with that petrified look!

London's Love didn't seem to see it. She went on gaily: "Didn't half fill the stalls, our party this morning, what, what? Might have been 'some' divorce case! Now for a spot of lunch to wash it all down. We're all going on to the Cecil. Come on, Jim," to Mr. Burke.