"How much further is it?" I asked, despairingly, as we rumbled through bewildering labyrinths of dark and narrow streets. "Aren't we nearly there?"
"My dear little rustic, we are not quarter of the way. We have a long drive before us yet, and if you will renounce the pleasure of looking out at those crazy lamp-posts, and turn your face this way, I will promise to tell you long enough before we reach Gramercy Square, for you to get up a very pretty speech to rush into your aunt's arms withal. In the meantime, think about me, and not about her."
I tried to obey, while my companion amused and humored me like the spoilt child I was fast becoming under his indulgence. It was impossible not to feel reassured by his manner, and soothed by it, half teasing and half tender; but all the terror returned, when, looking at his watch, and then out into the street, he said:
"I promised to tell you; we are now in Fourth Avenue; in about three minutes and a quarter, we shall turn into Gramercy Square, and in about one minute and three quarters from that time, we shall stop at the door of your new home. You have just five minutes to smooth your hair, pinch some color into your white cheeks, say good bye, and tell me how good and faithful a friend you are going to be."
"Oh," I cried, in great alarm, "surely you will go in! I shall die if I have to go alone. Dear Mr. Rutledge! You would not be so unkind. Just think how little I know my aunt, and how I shall feel to be all alone without one soul I know. You surely will not leave me."
Mr. Rutledge laughed and yielded; before I was aware, the carriage had stopped, and Thomas had mounted the steps and rung the bell. In a moment, a stream of light from the hall showed the bell was answered. Thomas returned to open the door of the carriage, and with Mr. Rutledge's kind words in my ear, and the kind touch of his hand on mine, I crossed the dreaded threshold. The servant, who recognized Mr. Rutledge deferentially, showed us into a parlor, where the soft light, the rich curtains, and the pleasant warmth, gave one an instant feeling of luxury and comfort. The next room was only dimly lighted; but beyond that, through lace hangings, was visible a brighter room, and glimpses of glass and silver, made it apparent that dinner was but just over.
From this room, pushing aside the drapery with graceful haste, issued a lady, who I knew at once to be my aunt Edith. There never was a firmer and more elastic tread than hers, nor a better turned and more graceful figure; the modish little cap upon her head, with its floating ribbons, was all that at that distance looked matronly enough to designate her as the mother of the demoiselle who followed her. Mr. Rutledge advanced to meet her, thus shielding me a moment longer. Her greeting to him was as gracious and cordial as possible, but she looked eagerly forward, saying quickly:
"Mais où est l'enfant?"
Mr. Rutledge laughed, and turned to me, "La voici," he said, appreciating her look of amazement.
"Impossible!" she exclaimed, starting back. "My child I never should have known you," she continued, taking me by both hands, and kissing me as affectionately as she could for her bewilderment. She held me off, and looked at me again; then gave Mr. Rutledge a quick, searching look, and said rapidly in French, in a tone that was not altogether as light and jesting as it was meant to appear, "And this is the 'little girl' you have been writing to me about for the last three weeks; this is 'the child' you have had the care of. Upon my word, monsieur, your notions of infancy and mine differ!"