Mrs. Medway was a selfish woman, and the charge was irksome, but the circumstances of her own early life and adoption were so extensively known, that she dared not brave the censure of her friends by refusing it; and thus whilst Grace was ostensibly cared and provided for, she was made to feel her dependence, and had resolved in her own heart to seize the first opportunity of releasing her self from this thraldom, preferring to earn her daily bread, than to receive it as a favor while she toiled for it as a menial. But her gentle and pliant nature dreaded to offend or grieve Mrs. Medway, for she knew that she was really essential to her, whilst for Sophy, rude as she at times appeared, she felt a warm attachment, for she alone acted toward her as an equal and a friend.
Grace Addison was not beautiful, but she had charms enough to have made her a dangerous rival, had she appeared on equal terms with the sisters. She shrunk, however, from society, and seldom appeared at Mrs. Medway’s soirées, very much, it must be confessed, to that lady’s satisfaction. We have said Grace was not beautiful—lovely is the epithet properly belonging to her. Scarcely above the middle height, her slender form was inexpressibly graceful in all its attitudes; there were no angles about her, Sophy said. Every accidental position was a study for a sculptor—and never was the gentle name of Grace more fitly applied. Her deep, thoughtful blue eyes were shaded by long black lashes, that rested on a cheek whose deepest tint never exceeded the glow on the lip of a sea-shell, and the delicate features, and rich mass of dark hair, gave that air of refinement so rare and so indescribable. Such was the family of which the nabob, Jacob Medway, was expected to become an inmate.
In Mrs. Medway’s drawing-room the family was assembled to receive the expected guest. Sophy was ridiculing her sister, and imitating the welcome which she said Matilda had learned by rote, when the noise of carriage-wheels were heard, and presently a loud ring of the bell announced the arrival. Mrs. Medway arose, and went into the hall, and then came the sound of trunks unstrapped, and packages thrown in, and next, enveloped in cloaks, the rich uncle stepped from the carriage, and being welcomed by Mrs. Medway, was shown at once to his room, where every accommodation for his comfort had been made. He had a colored servant, and as many packages as even Matilda expected, but no pet monkey or macaws as yet appeared.
“Well, mamma, what is he like?” exclaimed both daughters in a breath, as she re-entered the room.
“You shall judge for yourselves presently,” she answered. “He does not appear to be gouty, however, for he stepped quite firmly into the hall, and his voice is pleasant and not at all cross.”
“So, perhaps, Matilda will not have the gratification of being a martyr after all,” cried Sophy, laughing; “her honey-water will sour by keeping, and my vinegar become flat; well, after all, I am a little disappointed. I don’t believe he is at all rich, Matilda, unless he is gouty, cross, and every thing bad; it would be too much of a good thing if he were.”
Matilda did not much relish her sister’s raillery, and a sharp reply rose to her lips as the door opened and her uncle entered. Mrs. Medway immediately rose, and introduced him to her daughters, and Grace offered him the arm-chair which he politely accepted, and then expressed, in a very few words, his thanks for her courtesy.
He was, of course, an object of great interest to the little group, and did not altogether answer their expectations.
Uncle Medway was tall, and rather stout, with a fine open countenance, yellow and brown, to be sure, in its hue, but the expression of his mouth contradicted at once all idea of ill-nature. His eyes were small, with a keen, shrewd, searching expression; and one could scarcely credit that their vision was impaired, so that without glasses he could not distinguish minute objects. He carried an ear-cornet in his hand, and apologised for his infirmities, speaking in a nervous and abrupt manner.
“You will find me a troublesome inmate, I fear, madam,” he said to Mrs. Medway; “my infirmities make me a poor companion. I am a man of few words, and my loss of hearing renders it almost impossible to enjoy the conversation of others, while even the pleasure of reading is in part denied me.”