me--dreadfully--desperately--from the very first. But I was _so_ sure it
was only a fancy, and--and that when I was so bad to him, and Phyllis so
kind, he began to care for her instead. Just now, when you said I must
pretend to be engaged to him, I was thinking how horrid it would be for
him to feel, 'Oh, if it were only Phyllis!' Didn't you suppose he was in
love with Phyllis?"
"Never," I heard myself assuring her; "never."
"I'm _so_ glad. You're sure, then, that he knows his own mind, that he
isn't asking me to go on being really engaged to him just to save my
feelings after that scene with Sir Alec MacNairne?"
"I'm _dead_ sure," I said.
"You perfect dear! I _do_ like you. Oh, wasn't it too funny--I can say
it, now we're brother and sister--he thought I might be in love with
_you_."
"Owl!" I remarked.
"And all the time I was so horribly afraid he might suspect I cared
that I would hardly speak a word to him. Besides, I didn't suppose he
could be bothered listening to anything _I_ might have to say. And I
felt quite _sorry_ for him when Phyllis was engaged to Robert. Dear
Phil, I've been horrid to her, too. You see, she was trying to persuade
herself to take Rudolph without loving him, and I just _hated_ her for
it."
"Oh, that was what you meant, then!" I exclaimed.
"What I meant?"
"It doesn't matter. Well, make your mind easy, sweet sister. Alb adores
you--has adored you since the first moment he set eyes on you, and will
till he closes them in death. That's my conviction as his lifetime
friend. And my advice is, go on being engaged to him until you marry
him."
"Mariner, what an old trump you are!" broke in Brederode. And there he
was behind me, neat as a pin, in his own suit of clothes, and radiant in
his new suit of happiness.
"I give her to you, Alb," said I. And then I strolled away again,
humming to the air of the Dead March, in Saul, or something equivalent,
those haunting words--
_Giving agreeable girls away----
One for you, and one for you, but never, never one for me!_
XXXVII
I felt, when I waked up on the morning of butter-market-day at
Middelburg, as if I had not slept at all, but had listened throughout
the night to the sweet, the incredibly sweet chimes that floated like
perfume in the air. Yet I suppose I must have slept, for the bells had
sometimes stopped playing their one melodious tune, to tinkle in my
dreams, "One for you, and one for you, but never, _never_ one for me?"
The hotel is a nice hotel, and there is a garden. After breakfast, I was
so tired of brotherliness, of beaming at happy couples, and hearing
plans about weddings, that instead of going forth to see the famous
Thursday Middelburg sights, at which the world comes from afar to gaze,
I slipped away and hid in the garden.
Phyllis and Robert were out together. Rudolph and Nell were out
together. Both parties conscientiously believed that they were out for
sight-seeing; that their object was to behold matrons and maidens in
white caps, quaint fichus, meek, straight bodices, and swelling skirts;
to admire pretty faces, with tinkling gold ornaments at their temples;
to stare at young arms, red under incredibly tight short sleeves, as
they bore baskets of eggs or pats of butter to market. How well I knew
the whole scene from photographs!--the bell-like figures of the women;
the booths in the big market square; and the cool arcades of the
butter-market. How well I knew, too, that neither Phyllis and Robert,
nor Rudolph and Nell would see anything at all, or remember it, if by
accident they did see aught save each other.
"This," I said to myself, "is the end. We may go back to Rotterdam
together, if we like. But everything's as much changed as if it were
another party. And this, this is what I've slaved for--fibbed
for--plotted for! 'Giving agreeable girls away!' Faugh!" I felt as much
injured as if I were a misunderstood saint, though, when one comes to
look at it, perhaps I have not always played precisely the part of
saint.
While I lolled gloomily on an extremely uncomfortable seat, not meant
for lolling, I heard a faint rustling in the grass behind me, and Tibe
appeared, to lay his head, in a matter-of-course way, upon my knee.
"Where's your mistress?" I asked mechanically. "Have you changed, too,
like all the rest, and left her alone?"
"Here I am," answered the L.C.P., as if the question had been addressed
to her. "I thought you'd be in the garden, so I came to find you. Why
don't you go out and see things?"
"Why don't you?" I echoed.
"Because I didn't like to feel that you were all by yourself," she
answered.
"You needn't have troubled about me," I said. "Nobody else does."
She laughed that quaint, quiet little laugh, which suits her. "That's
different. They're engaged to each other--all the rest of them. I'm
engaged--_by_ you."
"Don't let that engagement keep you from amusing yourself," I said. "The
bargain's off now. I hired an aunt to further my interests. Every one
else's have been furthered except mine."
"That's not my fault, is it?"
"I know it isn't," I assured her. "Don't think I'm finding fault with
you. On the contrary, you're really a marvelous being. But Othello's
occupation's gone."
"Yes," said she. "For both of us. I retire from aunthood, you retire
from nephewhood, with mutual respect, Is that it?"
"I suppose so," I gloomily replied. "Yet I'm loth to part with you,
somehow. You and Tibe are all I have left in the world. But now I
must lose you both."
"You don't need an aunt," she said.
"No, but I need some one; I don't know exactly who. Robert has snatched
one of my loves, Rudolph the other. What am I to do?"
"Come to the house and into my sitting-room, and let's talk it over,"
she suggested invitingly.
I obeyed.
There were flowers in her sitting-room. There always are. The scent of
late roses was sad, yet soothing.
"Excuse me a minute. I'm going into the next room to make myself pretty
before we begin our talk; but I won't be long, and Tibe shall keep you
company," said the L.C.P.
"You're well enough as you are," I said.
But she went, smiling; and I hardly missed her, I was so busy with my
own thoughts.
_One for you, and one for you, but never, never one for me?_
I must have hummed the words aloud, for her voice answered me, at the
door.
"Never's a long word, isn't it?"
I looked up.
A neat little figure stood on the threshold between the two rooms, the
same neat little figure I had seen constantly during the past eight
weeks. But it was not the same face. She had said, lightly, that she was
going to "make herself pretty," and she had. She had performed a
miracle. Or else I was asleep and dreaming.
The gray hair, folded in wings, was gone; the blue glasses were gone;
the big bow under the chin was gone. A pretty young woman was smiling at
me with the pretty little mouth I knew; but I did not know the bright
auburn hair, or the beautiful brown eyes that threw me an amazing
challenge.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.
"You told me you didn't want your aunt any more," said she.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"Don't you remember? I'm Mary Milton. If you'd lived in your own
country, instead of gadding about in foreign ones, you'd know who Mary
Milton is without asking--at least, you would if you ever read _The New
York Meteor_."
"I suppose this is a dream, and that I shall wake up," said I. "I slept
very badly last night."
"Don't call for help under the impression that it's a nightmare," said
my late aunt, twinkling.
"I have the impression that it's a vision," I answered. "But if you
don't explain yourself instantly, I shall die in the dream--of heart
failure."
"There's no great mystery," said Miss Milton. "I didn't particularly
want to disguise myself, but you advertised for an aunt, and as it's
difficult for a girl to make herself look middle-aged, I had to look
_old_. That's all, except that your advertisement came in very handy,
because--as you'd know if you were a patriotic American--Mary Milton's
an enterprising and rather celebrated young journalist making it her
business to go round the world for her paper without spending a penny of
her own. That was the understanding on which _The Meteor_ started and
'boomed' me; for it was my own idea. I wanted to see things, and I
hadn't money enough--so I went to call on the editor, and--I talked to
him, till he was quite fired with the project. _The Meteor_ has given me
a good send-off, and I've given it good copy. My adventures--as they
look in print--have been sensational, and, I believe, popular. I've been
at it for two years, and all America has read me, if you haven't. I've
done all the countries of Europe, now. Holland was the last, and I
seemed stuck on the threshold till I saw your advertisement. It couldn't
have suited better--except for the blue glasses and the wig. But one
can't have everything as one likes it. I've enjoyed the tour immensely,
thanks to you; and so have the readers of _The Meteor_. I'm afraid
I've teased you a good deal, and spent a lot of your pennies; but it
_was_ fun! And you shall have your presents all back--every one of them.
Heaps of money will be waiting for me from my paper when I get home to
New York. They're delighted with my work; and then I intend to send you
a check for all that you've paid me to be your aunt. I would rather,
_really_; and only keep one little thing to remember you by,
perhaps--and our days together."
"Did you always send back the money spent by persons you hypnotized to
conduct you through the different countries?"
"No. That was different. I--don't exactly know why, but it was. And you
needn't look at me so queerly. I've never done anything to be ashamed
of."
"I'd knock the person down who suggested that you had," said I. "I was
looking at you because I was thinking you more marvelous than ever. You
hypnotize _me_. You hypnotize everybody. I suppose you hypnotized the
editor into giving you your job?"
"Perhaps I did," she laughed. "Often I can get people to do things for
me--big things--if I want them to very much."
"You could get me to do anything!" I exclaimed. "You're a witch, and
what's more, I believe you're a beauty. Great Scott! How you grow on
one! Can this be why--because you are You--that in my heart of hearts I
don't care a rap if Nell and Phyllis are engaged to others? I wonder if
my instinct saw under the gray hair and blue glasses? Look here, are you
Miss or Mrs. Mary Milton? and if you're Mrs., are you a widow, grass, or
otherwise?"
She laughed. "Why, how old do you take me to be? As an aunt, my official
age was over forty. But Miss Mary Milton isn't much more than half Lady
MacNairne's age. It's as good to throw off the years as the wig and the
spectacles. I'm only twenty-three. I haven't had _time_ to marry yet,
thank goodness!"
"Thank goodness!" I echoed. "And thank goodness for You as you are. You
seem to me perfect."
"But I should never have done like this, for an aunt."
"Certainly not. But to think I should have been wasting you all this
time as a mere aunt!"
"I wasn't wasted. I saved you lots of things--if I didn't save you
money. Really, I _did_ earn my salary--though you often thought me
officious."
"Never!"
"Not when I kept you from proposing to Nell Van Buren?"
"That was a blessing in disguise."
"Like myself. But truly, I only did it to spare you humiliation in the
end. I knew all along that she was in love with Rudolph
Brederode--though perhaps _she_ wouldn't have found it out so soon if it
hadn't been for me."
"You've been our good genius all round," said I. "And I owe you----"
"Now, don't offer me more rewards! It was fun wheedling things from you
at first; but bribes have been getting on my nerves lately. The play was
played out."
"Let's pretend it was only a curtain-raiser," I suggested. "I'd like you
to be 'on' in the next piece, in the leading part. Mary Milton! What a
delicious name! And _you're_ delicious! It's a great comfort to
understand why I was never really in love with either of those Angels.
You are not an angel--but I'm going to be madly in love with you. I feel
it coming on. I shall adore you."
"Nonsense! A man mustn't be in love with his aunt."
"I strip you of your aunthood. But I can't give you up to _The Meteor_.
If you go to America, you must personally conduct Ronald Lester Starr.
You oughtn't to mind. You're used to looking after him."
I took a step toward her; but she stooped down and framed the ugly pansy
of Tibe's face between her little hands.
"Tibe, what do you say to him?" she asked.
Tibe wagged his tail.
While he was wagging, the others came in. Their looks of radiant new
happiness changed to surprise at sight of my companion. In spite of the
dress nobody recognized the pretty girl with the wonderful eyes and
crisp masses of sparkling auburn hair.
Yesterday I would have sacrificed anything, up to Tibe himself, to avoid
explanations, but now I enjoyed them.
Everybody laughed and exclaimed (except Robert), and Brederode helped me
out so nobly that I would have given him Nell with my own hand if she
had not already made him that present.
"It's like one of Nell's stories," cried Phyllis. "Only she used to love
to make hers end sadly."
"I should have died if this had ended sadly," Nell said frankly, holding
out both hands to Brederode, with a lovely look in her eyes.
"So should I, I'm sure," said Phyllis. "Oh, isn't it glorious that we
all adore each other so!"
"Do we?" I asked the _Meteor_ lady.
She smiled. "I suppose it would be a pity to make a jarring note in the
chorus."
While she was in that mood I took out the ruby ring which she had said
ought to be an engagement ring.
"With this ring I thee----"
"No!"
"Engage thee as my perpetual chaperon."
This time she did not draw back her hand. And I kissed it as I slipped
on the ruby.
THE END