"Do not keep that poor child standing any longer," exclaimed my aunt, drawing me gently to a sofa, while Mr. Rutledge and Josephine seated themselves opposite, and talked as if they were, indeed, "friends of old," while Josephine's laugh, which, gay as it was, hadn't altogether a true ring to it, conveyed the idea of more familiarity and intimacy than I was quite prepared for. Meanwhile my aunt untied my bonnet-strings, smoothed my hair, and said I was growing so like my poor dear mother. No doubt it was kindly meant, but I had never yet learned to bear calmly the least allusion to my grief, and the tears rushed into my eyes, and the dawning confidence and self-possession were miserably dashed back again, and I had to struggle hard to make any reply at all. My aunt soothingly praised my pretty sensibility, and only made matters worse. Then she told me to wipe away my tears, and come into the dining-room with her. I followed gladly, and she rang and ordered coffee, and made me sit beside her and tell her all about my journey, and whether I still felt any ill effects from my accident, and how I liked Rutledge, and whether I was glad to leave school. It was strange, that with all this kindness my reserve did not melt faster; but it was a miserable fact, that I felt more awe and admiration for, than ease and sympathy with, my new-found relative. I longed to appear well in her eyes, and win her affection, but I never was more awkward and ill at ease. She had a way of looking at me that showed me she was making up an estimate of me, and I felt as if I were sitting for my picture all the time, and was as easy and natural as persons generally are under those circumstances.
I asked, at last, where my other cousins were. Grace was at her lessons, but would be down presently; Esther was sent to bed. Indeed, a violent scuffling and roars of "Let me see her, too," smothered by a voluble French reprimand, had announced to me, upon first entrance, that la petite was about making her exit. I took off my cloak, and accepted my aunt's suggestion, that I should not go to my room till I had had a cup of coffee. Mr. Rutledge and my cousin were presently summoned from the other room, and coffee was served. Josephine was very bright and piquant, talking well and amusingly; Mr. Rutledge was more sarcastic and man-of-the-world-ly than he had been at home; my aunt was graceful, winning, and polished, only making my wretched awkwardness and silence more conspicuous and striking. I longed to redeem myself, but there was a spell upon me; monosyllables and unfinished sentences were all the contributions toward the conversation that I could command, till Josephine exclaimed:
"Why, how quiet you are! You do not say a word. Is she always so silent, Mr. Rutledge?"
Mr. Rutledge smiled, and turned toward me.
"How is it, mademoiselle?" he said. "I have had but a short experience of your cousin's conversational powers," he continued, to Josephine; "I must confess that I have sometimes fancied that she held those powers somewhat in reserve; but I have no doubt that among companions of her own age, and in the congenial society of her young cousins, she will become as charmingly loquacious."
Josephine patted me patronizingly on the shoulder; my aunt looked at me thoughtfully; Mr. Rutledge turned to me for confirmation of his words, with a bow and a smile that staggered me completely. I began to wonder whether he had ever been anything more to me than the polite stranger he now appeared. Whether, in truth, the last three weeks had not been all a dream, and that railroad accident had not in some way affected my brain.
Just then the door opened, and enter my second cousin. If I may be pardoned for applying so unadmiring an epithet to so near a relative, I should describe this young person as very insipid-looking; very undeveloped for her age, with an unmistakable flavor of bread-and-butter and pertness; with rather a drawl in her tone, and rather a pout on her lips; fair-skinned and fair-haired, rather pretty, perhaps, but far from lovable. On the whole, I was not attracted toward my cousin Grace, but I kissed her dutifully, and held her limp, inexpressive hand a minute or so in mine, while she said, "How d'ye do, Mr. Rutledge," in a drawling voice, that formed a striking contrast to her sister's vivacious tones.
Before very long, Mr. Rutledge turned to my aunt, and apologized for intruding so long on a family reunion, and promising himself the pleasure of waiting on her very soon again, said a cordial good night. There had been some commenting on a new picture, and we were all standing in a group before it, at the other end of the dining-room, when Mr. Rutledge took his leave. There were many jesting and pleasant words exchanged with the others as he withdrew, having shaken hands with them. I had shrunk into the background, and waited, my heart in my throat, to know whether I was forgotten, when he suddenly turned back, before he reached the door, and said:
"Pardon! Have I said good night to my young travelling companion? Ah! there you are. I am afraid you are very tired; I am not sure that we have not travelled too fast for such an inexperienced tourist."
"She couldn't have done Switzerland at our pace, last summer, I am afraid, could she?" said Josephine, complacently.