“And thus forfeit your claim to the fortune in store,” said her sister; “for my part I am willing to take a pill every other day, in the hope that it will prove at last a gilded one, and will feed the macaws to a surfeit—”
“In fact, kill them with kindness,” interrupted Sophy, laughing. “Well, you are welcome to all you can get, the pill will be bitter if it is gilded; I love my ease too well to be shackled even with golden fetters; so Grace and you may divide the labor and the reward.”
“Grace will of course do whatever is required of her,” said Mrs. Medway gravely, “but as she has no claim of kindred upon your uncle, she will not expect any other return than my approval. And now girls we have spent a long time chatting; I must go and prepare for our newly arrived relative’s coming, and remember, Sophy, that you treat him with all deference and respect; you might have a little natural feeling—”
“All fudge, mamma,” laughed Sophy, rising from her seat; “talk of natural feeling, indeed, for a cross old fidgety fellow one never saw, and scarcely ever heard of, except when he sent you that superb India shawl. I tell you, mamma, it is a natural feeling for his presents and his rupees that inspires you and Matilda; I will none of them except they come in a natural way, without any force put on my inclination. You know I am a little Pickle, and I intend to be as sour as vinegar.”
“And I as sweet as honey-water,” cried Matilda, as she left the room.
“Yes, and as insipid, too,” replied her sister, following. “As for you, Grace,” she added, looking back, “as you fortunately have no selfish considerations, you can afford to be, as you always are, ‘Simple Grace, gracious and graceful,’” so saying, the noisy girl slammed the door after her, leaving Grace to her daily duty of washing the breakfast things, and arranging the room.
Mrs. Medway was the widow of a merchant who had left his family possessed of a moderate income, which they contrived should, like a thin plate of gold, cover a large surface. They lived up to their means in every sense. Mrs. Medway gave parties, kept several servants, lived in a large house, showily furnished, and dressed herself and daughters splendidly. All this could not be done without strict economy somewhere; and while the soirées of Mrs. Medway were pronounced delightful, the servants made many complaints of their daily fare. Mrs. Medway was only one of a class; there are hundreds who, to use a vulgar phrase, “rob Peter to pay Paul,” and fast at home, that they may appear to feast abroad.
The coming of Jacob Medway, an elder brother of her husband, who had spent his life in India, and now returned to his native land, to enjoy his fortune and find an heir, was an important event to Mrs. Medway. She would rather, to be sure, have him unacquainted with certain parts of her household arrangement, but she hoped to reap a golden harvest, and wished to give her daughters an opportunity of ingratiating themselves in his favor. These daughters were handsome, showy girls. Matilda, the elder, had been a decided belle for several seasons. She was tall and slender, with very fine dark eyes, rather long face, and that distinguished air and manner that stamps the woman of fashion. She was very anxious to secure her uncle’s favor, for she argued that a fine fortune might secure her the alliance that her fine person had hitherto failed to win.
The younger daughter, Sophy, with less beauty than her sister, was still much admired. She had a rattling, dashing way of saying pert, and sometimes shrewd things, that passed for wit, among the idlers who surrounded her, though they often winced under the keenness of her remarks. She was not amiable, but possessed a sturdy independence that was a redeeming trait, and though often displaying it in a most disagreeable manner, was in reality much less selfish than her soft-lipped sister.
The other inmate of the family whom we have mentioned, was Grace Addison—“little Grace,” as she was wont to be affectionately termed in her own happy home, but now, “Simple Grace,” as Sophy loved to call her. The mother of Grace was a cousin of Mrs. Medway; she had been left a widow in very straitened circumstances, her husband dying when Grace was just fifteen. Grief and anxiety threw her in a consumption, and she died two years after, leaving her orphan child to the care of her cousin, Mrs. Medway, who had herself been tenderly reared under the roof of Mrs. Addison’s father, and upon whom the grand-daughter of her benefactor certainly had a claim.