The Chamber of Death—The Catastrophe.

She obeyed him, shuddering and silent. He followed her, closed the entrance, and fastened it within. They were alone among the dead of a thousand years—alone, but not in darkness. The hand of preparation had been there, and cressets were burning upon the walls; their lights, reflected from the numerous shields of bronze within the apartment, shedding a strange and fantastic splendor upon the scene. The eyes of Aurelia rapidly explored the chamber as if in search of some expected object. Those of Coelius watched them with an expression of scornful triumph, which did not escape her glance. She firmly met his gaze, almost inquiringly, while her hands were involuntarily and convulsively clasped together.

“Whom dost thou seek, Aurelia?”

“Thou know’st! thou know’st!—where is he? Tell me, my Coelius, that he is safe, that thou hast sped him hence—that I may bless thee.”

He smiled significantly as he replied, “He is safe—I have sped him hence!”

“Tinai, (Adonai,) my husband, keep thee in the hollow of his hand.”

“How shameless! dost thou dare so much!”

“What mean’st thou, my Coelius?”

“Sit thou there,” he answered, “till I show thee my picture.” He pointed her, as he spoke, to a new sarcophagus, upon which she placed herself submissively. Then, with a wand in his hand, he, himself seated upon another coffin of stone, pointed her to a curtain which covered one of the sides of the chamber. “Behind that curtain, Aurelia, is the last work of my hands; but before I unveil it to thine eyes, let me tell thee its melancholy history. It will not need many words for this. Much of it is known to thee already. How I found thee in Rome, when I was there a captive—how I loved thee, and how I believed in thy assurances of love; all these things thou know’st. We wedded, and I brought thee, a Roman woman, held a barbarian by my people, into the palace of one of the proudest families of all Etruria. Shall I tell thee that I loved thee still, that I love thee even now, when I have most reason to hate thee, when I know thy perjury, thy cold heart, thy hot lust, thy base, degrading passions!”

“Hold, my lord—say not these things to my grief and thy dishonor. They wrong me, not less than thy own name. These things, poured into thine ear by some secret enemy, are false!”

“Thou wilt not swear it.”

“By all the gods of Rome—”

“And of what avail, and how binding the oath taken in the names of the barbarian deities of Rome.”

“By the Etrurian—”

“Perjure not thyself, woman, but hear me.”

“Go on, my lord, I will hear thee, though I suffer death with every word thou speak’st.”

“It is well, Aurelia, that thou art prepared for this.”

“Thy dagger, my Coelius, were less painful than thy words and looks unkind.”

“Never was I unkind until I found thee false.”

“Never was I false, my lord, even when thou wast unkind.”

“Woman! lie not; thou wert discovered with thy paramour, here, in this tomb; thou wert followed, day by day, and all thy secret practices betrayed. This thou ow’st to the better vigilance of my dear brother Aruns—he, more watchful of my honor than myself—”

“Ah! well I know from what hand came the cruel shaft; Coelius, my Coelius, thy brother is a wretch, doomed to infamy and black with crime. I have had no paramour. I might have had, and thou might’st have been dishonored, had I hearkened to thy brother’s pleadings. I spurned him from my feet with loathing, and he requites me with hate. Oh! my husband, believe me, and place this man, whom thou too fondly callest thy brother, before thine eyes and mine!”

“Alas! Aurelia, this boldness becomes thee not. I myself traced thee to this tomb—these eyes but too frequently beheld thee with thy paramour.”

“Coelius, as I live, he was no paramour—but where is he, what hast thou done with him?”

“Sent him before thee to prepare thy coach in Hades!”

“Oh, brother!—but thou hast not! tell me, my lord, that thy hand is free from this bloody crime!”

“He sleeps beneath thee. It is upon his sarcophagus thou sittest.”

She started with a piercing shriek from the coffin where she sat, knelt beside it, and strove to remove the heavy stone lid, which had been already securely fastened. While thus engaged the Lucumo drew aside with his hand the curtain which concealed the picture.

“Look,” said he, “woman, behold the fate which thou and thy paramour have received—behold the task which I had set me when first I had been shown thy perjuries. Look!”

She arose in silence from her knees, and turned her eyes upon the picture. As the curtain was slowly unrolled from before it, and she conceived the awful subject, and distinguished, under the care of the good and guardian genii, the shades of well-known members of the Pomponian family, her interest was greatly excited; but when following in the train and under the grasp of the Etrurian demon, she beheld the features of the young Roman who was doomed, she bounded forward with a cry of agony.

“My brother, my Flavius, my own, my only brother!” and sunk down with outstretched arms before the melancholy shade.

“Her brother!” exclaimed the husband. She heard the words and rose rapidly to her feet.

“Ay, Flavius, my brother, banished from Rome, and concealed here in thy house of silence, concealed even from thee, my husband, as I would not vex thee with the anxieties of an Etrurian noble, lest Rome should hear and punish the people, by whom her outlaw was protected. Thou know’st my crime. This paramour was the brother of my heart—child of the same sire and dame—a noble heart, a pure spirit, whose very virtues have been the cause of his disgrace at Rome. Slay me, if thou wilt, but tell me not, O, Coelius, that thou hast put the hands of hate upon my brother!”

“Thy tale is false, woman—well-planned, but false. Know I not thy brother? Did I not know thy brother well in Rome? Went we not together oft? I tell thee, I should know him among a line of ten thousand Romans!”

“Alas! alas! my husband, if ever I had brother, then is this he. I tell thee nothing but the truth. Of a surety, when thou wert in Rome, my brother was known to thee, but the boy has now become a man. Seven years have wrought a change upon him of which thou hast not thought. Believe me, what I tell thee—the youth whom I sheltered in this vault, and to whom I brought food nightly, was, indeed, my brother—my Flavius, the only son of my mother, who sent him to me, with fond words of entreaty, when the consuls of the city bade him depart in banishment.”

“I cannot believe thee, woman. It were a mortal agony, far beyond what I feel in the conviction of thy guilt, were I to yield faith to thy story. It is thy paramour whom I have slain, and who sleeps in that tomb. His portrait and his judgment are before thee, and now—look on thine own!”

The picture, fully displayed, showed to the wretched woman her own person, in similar custody with him who was her supposed paramour. The terrible felicity of the execution struck her to the soul. It was a picture to live as a work of art, and to this she was not insensible. She clasped her hands before it, and exclaimed,

“Oh! my Coelius, what a life hast thou given to a lie. Yet may I bear the terrors of such a doom, if he whom thou hast painted there in a fate full of dreadful fellowship with mine, was other than my brother Flavius—he with whom thou did’st love to play, and to whom thou did’st impart the first lessons in the art which he learned to love from thee. Dost hear me, my Coelius, as my soul lives, this man was none other than my brother.”

“False! false! I will not, dare not believe thee!” he answered in husky accents. His frame was trembling, yet he busied himself in putting on a rich armor, clothing himself in military garb, from head to foot, as if going into action.

“What dost thou, my lord?” demanded Aurelia, curious as she beheld him in this occupation.

“This,” said he, “is the armor in which I fought with Rome when I was made the captive of thy people, and thine. It is fit that I should wear it now, when I am once more going into captivity.”

“My husband, what mean’st thou—of what captivity dost thou speak?”

“The captivity of death! Hear me, Aurelia, dost thou feel nothing at thy heart which tells thee of the coming struggle when the soul shakes off the reluctant flesh, and strives, as it were, for freedom. Is there no chill in thy veins, no sudden pang, as of fire in thy breast. These speak in me. They warn me of death. We are both summoned. But a little while is left us of life.”

“Have mercy, Jove! I feel these pains, this chill, this fire that thou speak’st of.”

“It is death! the goblet which I gave thee, and of which I drank the first and largest draught was drugged with death.”

“Then—it is all true! Thou hast in truth slain my brother. Thou hast—thou hast!”

“Nay, he was not thy brother, Aurelia. Why wilt thou forswear thyself at this terrible moment? It is vain. Would’st thou lie to death—would’st thou carry an impure face of perjury before the seat of the Triune God! Beware! Confess thy crime, and justify the vengeance of thy lord!”

“As I believe thee, my Coelius—as I believe that thou hast most rashly and unjustly murdered my brother, and put death in the cup which, delivered by thy hands, was sweet and precious to my lips, so must I now declare, in sight of Heaven, in the presence of the awful dead, that what I have said and sworn to thee, is truth. He whom I sheltered within the tombs of thy fathers, was the son of mine—the only, the last, best brother of my heart; I bore him in mine arms when I was a child myself. I loved him ever! Oh, how I loved him! next to thee, my Coelius—next to thee! Could’st thou but have spared me this love—this brother!”

“How knew I—how know I now—that he was thy brother?” was the choking inquiry.

“To save thee the cruel agony that thou must feel, knowing this, I could even be moved to tell thee falsely, and say that he was not my brother—but, indeed, some paramour, such as the base and evil thought of thy brother has grafted upon thine; but I may not, thy love is too precious to me at this last moment, even if death were not too terrible to the false speaker. He was, indeed, my Flavius, dear son of a dear mother, best beloved brother, he whom thou did’st play with as a boy, to whom thou gav’st lessons in thy own lovely art; who loved thee, my Coelius, but too fondly, and only forbore telling thee of his evil plight for fear that thou should’st incur danger from the sharp and angry hostility of Rome. Seek my chamber, and in my cabinet thou wilt find his letters, and the letters of my mother, borne with him in his flight. Nay,—oh! mother, what is this agony?”

“Too late! too late! If it be truth thou speakest, Aurelia, it is a truth that cannot save. Death is upon us—I see it in thy face—I feel it in my heart. Oh! would that I could doubt thy story!”

“Doubt not—doubt not—believe and take me to thy heart. I fear not death, if thou wilt believe me. My Coelius, let me come to thee and die upon thy bosom.”

“Ah! should’st thou betray me—should’st thou still practice upon me with thy woman art!”

“And wherefore? It is death, thou say’st, that is upon us now. What shall I gain, in this hour, by speaking to thee falsely. Thou hast done thy worst. Thou hast doomed me to death, and to the eyes of the confiding future!”

She threw her arms around him as she spoke, and sunk, sunk sobbing upon his breast.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “that dreadful picture! I feel, my Aurelia, that thou hast spoken truly—that I have been rash and cruel in my judgments. Thy brother lies before thee, and yonder tomb is prepared for thee. I did not yield without a struggle; and I prepared me for a terrible sacrifice. Upon this bier, habited as I am, I yield myself to death. There is no help—no succor. Yet that picture! Shall the falsehood overcome the truth? Shall that lie survive thy virtues, thy beauty, and thy life! No! my Aurelia, this crime shall be spared at least.”

He unwound her arms from about his neck, and strove to rise. She sunk in the same moment at his feet. “Oh, death!” she cried, “thou art, indeed, a god! I feel thee, terrible in thy strength, with an agony never felt before. Leave me not, my Coelius—forgive—and leave me not!”

“I lose thee, Aurelia! Where—”

“Here! before the couch—I faint—ah!”

“I would destroy,” he cried, “but cannot! This blindness. Ho! without there! Aruns! It is thy step I hear! Undo, undo—I forgive thee all, if thou wilt but help. Here—hither!”

The acute senses of the dying man had, indeed, heard footsteps without. They were those of the perfidious brother. But, at the call from within, he retreated hastily. There was no answer—there was no help. But there was still some consciousness. Death was not yet triumphant. There was a pang yet to be felt—and a pleasure. It was still in the power of the dying man to lift to his embrace his innocent victim. A moment’s return of consciousness enabled her to feel his embrace, his warm tears upon her cheek, and to hear his words of entreaty and tenderness imploring forgiveness. And speech was vouchsafed her to accord it.

“I forgive thee, my Coelius—I forgive thee, and bless thee, and love thee to the last. I know that thou would’st never do me hurt of thy own will; I know that thou wert deceived to this—yet how, oh, how, when my head lay upon thy breast at night, and I slept in peace, could’st thou think that I should do thee wrong!”

“Why,” murmured the miserable man, “why, oh, why?”

“Had I but told thee, and trusted in thee, my Coelius?”

“Why did’st thou not?”

“It was because of my brother’s persuasion that I did not—he wished not that thou should’st come to evil.”

“And thou forgiv’st me, Aurelia—from thy very heart thou forgiv’st me?”

“All, all—from my heart and soul, my husband.”

“It will not, then, be very hard to die!”

An hour after and the chamber was silent. The wife had yielded first. She breathed her last sigh upon his bosom, and with the last effort of his strength he lifted her gently and laid her in the sarcophagus, composing with affectionate care the drapery around her. Then, remembering the picture, he looked around him for his sword with which to obliterate the portraits which his genius had assigned to so lamentable an eternity; but his efforts were feeble, and the paralysis of death seized him while he was yet making them. He sunk back with palsied limbs upon the bier, and the lights, and the picture, faded from before his eyes, with the last pulses of his life. The calumny which had destroyed his hopes, survived its own detection. The recorded falsehood was triumphant over the truth; yet may you see to this day, where the random strokes of the weapon were aimed for its obliteration. Of himself there is no monument in the tomb, though one touching memorial has reached us. The vaulted chamber buried in the earth was discovered by accident. A fracture was made in its top by an Italian gentleman in company with a Scottish nobleman. As they gazed eagerly through the aperture, they beheld an ancient warrior in full armor, and bearing a coronet of gold. The vision lasted but a moment. The decomposing effects of the air were soon perceptible. Even while they gazed, the body seemed agitated with a trembling, heaving motion, which lasted a few minutes, and then it subsided into dust. When they penetrated the sepulchre, they found the decaying armor in fragments, the sword and the helmet, or crown of gold. The dust was but a handful, and this was all that remained of the wretched Lucumo. The terrible picture is all that survives—the false witness, still repeating its cruel lie at the expense of all that is noble in youth and manhood, and all that is pure and lovely in the soul of woman.

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BY MARIE ROSEAU.

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BY MRS. O. M. P. LORD.

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OR THE NABOB UNCLE.

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BY AGNES L. GORDON.

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“Well, girls, prepare your sweetest smiles, and best behavior, for your uncle has arrived at last, and I have just received this note, dated at the Astor, announcing his coming, and accepting my invitation to make our house his home; so, to use his own expression, we may expect him, ‘bag and baggage,’ this evening.”

These words were addressed by Mrs. Medway to her daughters, as they sat at breakfast, in an elegant apartment in a fashionable street up town.

“That means, I suppose, that he comes with an ebony serving-man, in an immense turban, half a dozen hookahs, innumerable packages, and self-indulging contrivances, and all the et cÆteras of an eastern nabob,” replied Matilda. “I wonder where we are to stow away all the trash that he will undoubtedly pour in upon us? I wish, mamma, you had not invited him here; but if his coming prove but a golden one to us, I, for one, am perfectly willing to play the agreeable, with so bright a prospect in store.”

“Not so with me,” exclaimed her younger sister Sophy, “I am determined to do as I please, and not be like an automaton, at the will of a cross old invalid, as I have no doubt he is. I suppose we must have great fires built up all summer, and be content to be baked, and browned to crisps, in ovens of rooms, while old yellow-face shivers with cold, and swears at the climate. And then we must live on curries, and spices, and pilaus, and all sorts of horrid nauseous messes, until we are as yellow and bilious as himself. I boldly protest against all such proceedings, and thus, once for all, good people, declare myself free and independent.”

“But recollect, girls,” said their mother, while she laughed at Sophy’s declaration, “he is your father’s brother, and as such entitled to at least an appearance of respect. I wish he was less afflicted to be sure, for it will be a sad drawback, I fear, upon your amusements; but keep up your courage, and remember that to be co-heiresses of an Indian nabob is a distinction very much to be coveted, and worthy some sacrifices to attain.”

“I am sure his deafness will be a great relief to us all,” chimed in Matilda, “so as we play propriety and have plenty of delicate attentions, and wreathed smiles, in readiness, we can indulge once in a while in a theatrical aside of impatience, which will be quite a safety valve to the temper.”

“But if he is an invalid he must necessarily be cross,” answered Sophy, “and as his sight is impaired, he will probably want some one to read to him; that task I absolutely refuse to perform; for as to reading any thing more than the last magazine, it is an effort I never was equal to. We will appoint Grace reader to his Indian majesty. What say you, Grace, are you not overwhelmed with the honor?”

This question was addressed to a quiet girl, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, but who replied with a smile, “If your uncle is in reality the disagreeable person you describe, I shall not be emulous of the honor you design me; but if he is in truth an invalid, I will wait on him with cheerfulness, for you know I am accustomed to a sick chamber.”

“That’s just like you, Grace, always ready and willing to do for every one,” answered Sophy. “Of course he is an invalid—all nabobs are. He has the gout, and we must all creep on tip-toe about the room, lest an unlucky jar might give him a twinge, and bring down a volley, not of blessings, upon our devoted heads. Then the liver complaint is a necessary appendage, and blue pills and calomel will abound. Bah! what a house it will be to be sure, I should not wonder if he has a pet monkey and half a dozen macaws, and we shall have a menagerie and hospital combined. If such is the case, I shall run off and get married; so don’t wonder if some morning I am missing.”

“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.

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.”

“My daughters will be delighted to serve you in every way,” said Mrs. Medway, graciously.

“Now is your chance,” loudly whispered Sophy, to her sister, “lay your eyes, ears, and tongue, at the feet of your golden idol.”

“Sophy!” exclaimed her mother, in an agony, but the sight of the ear-cornet calmed her fears.

The evening passed slowly away; Uncle Medway retired early, and the young ladies, after exchanging opinions of him, went to rest, to dream golden dreams, as Sophy maliciously said.

Uncle Medway did not appear at breakfast on the following morning, but during the forenoon, while the young ladies were occupied at their several employments, he unexpectedly entered, and with an apologetic smile and bow, took the seat which Matilda hastened to offer, tendering at the same time very affectionate inquiries regarding his health. The old gentleman quietly put on his glasses and lowered his ear-cornet, requesting her to repeat her words, while Sophy maliciously offered to prompt her, in case she forgot her lesson. Matilda looked thunder at her sister, and sunshine at her uncle as she repeated her questions.

“I rested well, thank you,” said her uncle, “and as I hope to become better acquainted in time, you will not, I trust, be offended at my scrutiny.” He took Matilda’s hand as he spoke, and looked earnestly in her countenance.

“Do you consider me like papa?” she inquired with her most engaging smile, and speaking in the cornet, without which it was evident he could hear nothing.

“Humph, not much; your sister there is more like him,” he answered, pointing with his ear-trumpet to Sophy.

“There, Matilda, is ten thousand lost to you,” laughed the giddy girl.

“What does she say?” asked the old gentleman, casting a shrewd look at her; “come here, merry one, and tell me yourself.”

Sophy rose and courtesied before him, as she said to Grace, “Your turn next—so prepare. I wonder if the old Indian thinks he can turn us about as he would some China ornaments, while we stand bobbing like so many mandarins before him?” then turning to her uncle, she added, “I am delighted that you think I resemble my father, sir, although Matilda is counted the beauty, and I the fright.”

“Oh, Sophy, how can you rattle so,” exclaimed Grace.

“Now hush, Grace, until your time comes. You know I always speak out what I think.”

“Especially when you know one party at least cannot hear,” said her sister, sarcastically.

“You all seem to be chattering away among yourselves like so many magpies,” said the old gentleman. “But who is this young lady in the corner?”

“Our cousin, Grace Addison,” screamed Sophy, at the top of her voice, “and the dearest, best, kindest cousin in the world. She makes all our dresses, copies Matilda’s music, waters her flowers, sketches in her album, and does a thousand things for which others get the credit; and more than all, she bears all my impertinences, and never gets out of patience. Now, Grace,” turning toward her, “you are properly introduced, come and speak for yourself. I think I have made one party at least hear this time,” she added, to her sister; “and if old yellow-face has half as much generosity as he should have, there is a nice little plum in store for Simple Grace.” So saying, she ran out of the room.

When the party met at dinner, there were several dishes cooked to suit Uncle Medway’s taste, among the rest a curry. Mrs. Medway and Matilda accepted some of the proffered viand, but when the old gentleman politely turned to Sophy, she exclaimed,

“No, I thank you, none of your nauseous messes for me—the very smell of them takes away my appetite. Mamma, after this, I think I shall dine in my own room.”

“What does the young lady say?” asked Uncle Medway, elevating his cornet, “that she has no appetite?”

“I say I can’t bear curry,” screamed Sophy.

“Oh, Sophy, how can you be so rude?” said her mother, in despair.

“Because I hate hypocrisy,” answered the other, angrily. “There sits Matilda, striving to appear to eat what I know she abhors, afraid to say what her likes or dislikes are; it would not be worth the effort she makes to swallow it, if the hateful curry-powder was gold-dust. See, she is pale now—and sick, too, I dare say; for shame, Matilda. Uncle Medway, must, indeed, be deaf, dumb, and blind, not to discover in a short time all your false pretences.” Sophy spoke rapidly, despite of both mother and sister’s attempts to stop her, and Grace’s appealing looks. Secure in their guest’s entire deafness, she railed severely at the deceit she despised. Uncle Medway cast a searching look toward Matilda, and then turning to Grace, who sat next him, invited her to partake of his favorite dish. Grace thanked him, but declined.

“What,” said he, with a smile, “can’t you bear curry either? Perhaps you have never tasted it.”

“I am not fond of it, I confess,” answered Grace. “I have often seen it on my grandfather’s table, and he tried in vain to induce me to like it.”

Again those shrewd eyes of Uncle Medway rested on Grace’s countenance, and no further discussion arising, the dinner passed pleasantly off.

After dinner Grace was left alone with the old gentleman, while the sisters took their usual promenade, when suddenly turning toward her, he said, in his peculiarly abrupt manner, “Who was your grandfather?”

Grace looked up in surprise, but immediately answered, “My grandfather’s name was Maurice Addison.”

“And your father’s?”

“Jacob Addison; he was born in India—” and then, with a sudden impulse, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. Medway, did you know my grandfather? Are you not the old friend I have so often heard him mention, who went out to India with him, and who was so true and kind to him in illness and trouble? You are, I am sure, and my father was named after you, Jacob Addison.” It was unusual for the quiet Grace to be roused to such enthusiasm, but she rose from her seat, and laying her hand on the old gentleman’s chair, looked into his face with such an affectionate and expectant gaze, that his heart must have been adamant, indeed, to resist it. And as his was, in reality, a loving and unselfish heart, he drew Grace gently toward him, and a pleasant smile lighted up his face, as he said,

“And are you Maurice Addison’s own little merry pet, Grace, he so often mentioned in his letters to me? You are, I am sure; and you are the daughter of my little god-son, Jacob, who was only knee-high when I saw him last. And now, my dear child, for surely I have a right to call you so, why are you living here? Where are your parents?”

Tears started in Grace’s eyes as she related the circumstances of her parents’ death, and her admission into Mrs. Medway’s family, adding, that though they were all very kind to her, she would remain no longer than until she could procure an independent situation, as she feared, in Mrs. Medway’s circumstances, she was a burden.

“Humph!” was the only reply; and then the old gentleman added, “Say nothing about this conversation, if you please, until I give you permission.”

Grace willingly acceded; she knew that Mrs. Medway would not like to believe she possessed any claim, however slight, on Uncle Medway’s regard; and although feeling an attachment to him for her grandfather’s sake, had not the slightest idea of endeavoring to rival her cousins.

One morning Uncle Medway expressed a desire to drive through the city, and wished one of the ladies to accompany him as a cicÉrone. Matilda’s services were instantly offered, and politely accepted. On their return, Matilda threw herself on a sofa, exclaiming to her mother,

“Well, I never was so wearied in all my life; and I consider this splendid dress, which uncle purchased for me at Stewart’s, as very hardly earned. Never will I consent to be driven about, shut up in a carriage with such a perverse, questioning old codger again for a dozen dresses. Why the old man seemed to think I must know the whole history of the city, from its first settlement—we will have to lend him Diedrich Knickerbocker’s book. And then such stopping to admire the churches and other buildings, while groups of fashionables passed and stared; it is an ordeal I never will pass through again.”

“The honey-water is exhausted, is it?” asked Sophy. “You gave it in too great quantities at first; well, for my part, I might be induced to take one drive with such a reward in view.”

“What is that,” asked the uncle, turning sharply around, “don’t Matilda like her dress?”

“Shall I answer for you?” said Sophy.

“Oh, yes,” interrupted Mrs. Medway, “she was expressing her admiration and gratitude; but she says she will fear to go with you again, lest you should think her motives interested.”

“Humph! the motives are apparent enough!” muttered the old gentleman; then turning to Grace, he said, “Will you accompany me to-morrow, Grace. I promise faithfully that you shall have no reward, save the consciousness of obliging a troublesome old man?”

Grace gladly assented, and Mrs. Medway’s consent being given, Grace became the almost daily companion of the old gentleman, who seemed, however, to bestow but little notice on her, lavishing all his preference on Matilda, who was elated with her success.

A few days after, Uncle Medway brought down a closely-written letter of several pages, which he asked Matilda to copy for him, as she had so often expressed the pleasure it gave her to do any thing for her dear uncle. Matilda received the document with a gracious smile, and promised it should be done by the following morning. That evening the sisters went out with their mother, and Mr. Medway retired early to his own room, but having occasion to come down again for his glasses, he saw Grace bending over a table, on which were spread writing materials. She leaned her head on her clasped hands and sighed heavily. As he entered the room she looked up, and hastily drew a blank sheet over the page she had written.

“You look pale, child,” said the old gentleman, as he put on his spectacles. “What are you doing there?”

“Only writing a little—but I have a severe headache,” answered Grace.

“Go to bed, then—what are you poking your eyes out there for? I dare say some long letter to a sentimental friend, eh?” He approached the table as he spoke.

“You shall not see it, if it is,” said Grace, playfully putting her hand on the paper, “and I must finish it to-night, because I have promised—” she paused.

“Well, well,” said the old man, kindly, “promises must be kept, of course. I hope Matilda has kept her promise of copying my letter—do you think it will be finished by to-morrow morning, Grace?” And without waiting a reply, he left the room.

The following morning, the letter and copy were laid by Uncle Medway’s plate, and the old gentleman, examining it with an approving glance, took a fifty dollar note from his pocket-book, and said, “I do not wish to offend, by offering a remuneration for this correct and beautiful copy; but I know you ladies have always some charitable object of interest, and the fair writer of this must have devoted many hours to its accomplishment. It will gratify her to have the power of doing good in every way—a power which will, perhaps, ere long be unlimited. Will you accept it, Matilda, as to you it justly belongs, and be my almoner?”

Matilda’s eyes sparkled; this speech inferred much, and as she gracefully took the note, she thanked her uncle, and promised to dispose of it in charitable donations.

After breakfast, Uncle Medway was deeply engrossed in a paper, which he was endeavoring to decipher, and the sisters were sitting together, when Sophy said,

“Well, Matilda, what charitable institution do you intend to benefit by uncle’s donation; as you earned the money so honorably, you will, of course, disburse it with equal honesty and justice.”

Matilda colored slightly, but laughed, saying, “I shall do myself the charity to purchase that superb head-dress, and several costly et cÆteras that I want for Mrs. Dayton’s ball; and if you are a good girl, and hold your tongue, you shall be an object of charity, too.”

“Now, Matilda, that is too mean, even for you,” exclaimed the other, indignantly. “Shame on you, as Grace really copied the letter, she should at least have the privilege of distributing the money; here she comes now. Grace, in what way ought uncle’s donation to be applied—you are the proper person to decide, and prevent Matilda from the selfishness she contemplates, in bestowing it all upon herself and me.”

Her sister crimsoned with anger, but Grace spoke.

“I am sure you do Matilda injustice, Sophy; she would never act so deliberate a falsehood; as she told her uncle it should be applied to charity, she will certainly keep her word. And there is poor Mrs. Brown, the laundress, it would, indeed, be a charity to assist her—”

“And begin by paying her bills,” interrupted Sophy.

But her sister, rising angrily, exclaimed, “I will not be dictated to by either of you,” and hastily left the apartment.

Uncle Medway had now been domesticated in the family for several weeks, and must, indeed, have been deaf, dumb and blind, to remain ignorant of the by-play going on around him. Secure in his entire deafness, Matilda frequently made use of her safety-valve aside; and once, when requested by her uncle to play, and she said to her sister, “I hope to have the pleasure of playing the Dead March for him ere long,” she caught his eye fixed upon her with such a severe glance, that a momentary doubt of his inability to hear made her tremble; but again assured by his bland manner toward her, she plied her fulsome flatteries more assiduously than ever. Grace often wondered how one so clear-headed in all other things, should be so easily imposed upon, while Sophy regarded her sister with undisguised contempt; and by way of offset, became more rude and impertinent than ever.

The rich uncle had been a great assistance to the household; his generous heart was continually prompting him to make those presents which he saw were required—and this was done in the most delicate manner. It was with mingled feelings, therefore, that Mrs. Medway met the information he one day gave, that he had purchased a house in one of the most fashionable squares, and desired the taste of the ladies to assist him in furnishing it. He intended to celebrate his installation in his own home, by a splendid ball and supper, to which, as he had few acquaintances, he begged the ladies to invite those friends whose society was desirable. He also told Mrs. Medway, in confidence, that if she would part with one of her fair charges, he wished on the appointed evening, publicly to announce his choice of one of them as his heiress and adopted daughter, on condition that she resided with him to cheer his lonely old age. Mrs. Medway gave a delighted assent. She had no doubt on whom the choice would fall, and immediately congratulated Matilda, and caused it to be whispered among her confidential friends that her eldest daughter would be the heiress of the Indian nabob. Matilda declared the infliction of residing with such a horrid bore a severe penalty, but promised herself the satisfaction of spending his money at pleasure, while Sophy maliciously advised her to practice the “Groves of Blarney” preparatory to the “Dead March.”

The important evening arrived, and the three young ladies, elegantly attired in dresses of embroidered crape over India satin, presented by Uncle Medway, took their places in his splendid saloon to receive their guests. Matilda evidently took the precedence; and very handsome she looked in her stately beauty, doing the honors with all the grace which the future mistress of so superb an establishment should possess. While Grace, looking perfectly lovely in her pure and tasteful dress, shrunk abashed from the admiring gaze bestowed upon her, and was confused by the attention she excited. Uncle Medway went cheerfully among his guests, ear-cornet in hand, and spectacles on nose, quizzed by some, respected by many, and flattered by all.

Just as supper was announced, and the musicians had left the ball for the supper-room, Uncle Medway, supporting Mrs. Medway on his arm, and followed by the young ladies, stepped into the midst of the brilliant circle, and said,

“My guests are aware, I suppose, of my intention to adopt one of these fair young ladies as my sole heiress, my sister-in-law having kindly consented to spare one from her bright circle. I am a lonely old man, with many peculiar notions, and I require, therefore, a cheerful, yet gentle and patient spirit, to support my whims. Such an one I have found in the person of Grace Addison, the grandchild of my oldest friend, and the daughter of my namesake and godson. I therefore declare her my adopted child and heiress.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly, Mrs. Medway and Matilda seemed ready to sink with confusion, Sophy clapped her hands, and Grace, pale and trembling with surprise and emotion, suffered herself to be led forward by the old gentleman, who continued,

“I have met with much kindness and attention beneath the roof of my sister-in-law, in token of which I shall bequeath to my niece, Matilda, the sum of thirty thousand dollars, when she has the pleasure of playing the Dead March for me. And to her sister, whose opinions were at least frankly avowed, I shall leave a similar amount. My ear-cornet and glasses have served me a trusty part, and I now lay them aside, I hope forever, trusting that the ladies have profited by the lesson they have themselves taught me, that appearances are often deceitful, and one need not be deaf, dumb and blind, though he is a Nabob Uncle.”

Whether Mrs. Medway and her daughters stayed to the splendid supper prepared, and swallowed their mortification and the delicacies together, this record sayeth not; but that the beautiful heiress, Grace Addison, became at once a star of the first magnitude in the fashionable world, is to be expected; but the bright star ever found her happiness in enlivening the home of the eccentric but kind old man, who found in his adopted daughter the delight and solace of his old age.

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BY W. H. WELSH.

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Painted by GainsboroughEngraved by F. Humphreys
THE COTTAGE DOOR.
Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine