Part 4

Possessed of great beauty, a fine figure, a graceful address, and a host of superficial accomplishments, Rosa Crafts had always managed to be the belle of every circle in which she mingled. How this _éclat_ was obtained may be readily divined, for where there is no real dignity of character, no sincerity of heart, no firmness of principle, all tastes may be studied and adopted. But Rosa’s love of admiration had carried her beyond the limits of prudence. She pleased so _generally_ that she never became attractive _individually_, and she had attained her twenty-fifth year without receiving any eligible offer of marriage. The straitened circumstances in which her widowed mother had been left, rendered a wealthy alliance necessary to the support of the style of living which Rosa had insisted upon adopting, and Mrs. Crafts began to lose patience when she found her money diminishing, her debts increasing, and her daughter verging towards an _uncertain age_, without any prospect of bringing their schemes to a successful issue. It was just at this juncture that Colonel Middleton came within the sphere of her attractions, and was marked as a victim destined to fulfil her matrimonial speculations. The Colonel was a man whom almost any woman might have admired, even if he had not possessed the talisman of wealth. In his youth he had been eminently handsome, and time had dealt leniently with him, for the weight of forty years had fallen so lightly upon him that it would have puzzled the wisest physiognomist to count their number on his brow. His cheek wore the rich bloom of health, his well-formed mouth still displayed the glittering pearls which had been a distinguishing beauty in his boyhood, the thick wavy masses of his dark hair fell on temples but faintly tracked by the “foot of the crow,” and his tall figure still retained its symmetry, notwithstanding a slight tendency to _embonpoint_. He could scarcely be ignorant of his personal advantages, but he was by no means a vain man. In his youth, he had been mortified by the belief that his handsome face was more valued than his gifted mind; and the consciousness that, whatever might be his physical merits, his intellectual gifts were of far more value, tended to make him but little sensible to the impulses of vanity. But though possessing so many spells to awaken love, and endowed with a heart singularly alive to affection, he had been destined to disappointment. His fastidious taste had never been fully satisfied, and he had reached his thirtieth year before he found a woman who could excite a deep interest in his heart. While in Europe, he met with an English gentleman who was travelling with his invalid daughter, and the beauty, the delicacy of feeling, and the gentle reserve of Laura Pendleton’s character, soon won his warmest regard. Her melancholy, the consequence, as it seemed, of fragile health, was so touching, her style of beauty was so ethereal, her manners were so full of timid gentleness, that he became deeply attached to her. Knowing the prejudices of her father, he did not venture _first_ to avow his love to the shrinking girl, but taking advantage of her absence, he made known his wishes to Mr. Pendleton, and begged his acquiescence in his suit. He received a most flattering reply from the gratified father, and only wanted to be assured by Laura herself of his felicity, when she was suddenly taken seriously ill. He was of course denied all access to her, but her father treated him as her accepted lover, and even went so far as to decide that the marriage should take place immediately upon her recovery. When Colonel Middleton was admitted to the presence of Laura, she was still confined to her apartment, and never, from the time of his proposal to the hour when they stood before the altar to be wedded, did he see his affianced bride except in the company of her father or mother. He did not then know that there was a design in this vexatious restraint. Laura’s timidity and melancholy had evidently increased, but the sudden threatening of death at the moment of betrothment might easily account for this, and in the mean time she received her lover with her usual quiet kindness, passively suffering all his fondness, and offering no opposition when her father urged a speedy union. They were married at the house of the British Consul, and while her parents returned to their native land, the Colonel and his bride continued their sojourn in sunny Italy. It was not until months afterwards that he learned the whole truth. She had loved another—she had plighted her faith—but the authority of her parents had compelled her to break her troth, and the offer of Colonel Middleton had been made at the moment when the certainty of entire separation from the object of her affection had made her utterly regardless of her future fate. She neither accepted nor rejected him; her father managed the whole matter, and she had culpably sacrificed the peace of both by thus weakly yielding to despair. Some months after her marriage, the news of her lover’s death threw her into a paroxysm of grief and self-reproach, and taught the husband that he had won the hand only, while the heart was still another’s. Her feelings were too pure, and her mind too deeply imbued with truth, to be satisfied with the deception which her silence had practised upon her husband; and as her inert and timid temper had been the cause of her error, she determined to devote her life to its expiation. But she mistook penance for expiation. Instead of resolutely stifling her regrets for the past, and applying herself to the fulfilment of her duties—instead of remembering that duty to her husband required the oblivion of former affections—she vainly fancied that by giving herself up to sorrow, she should make a proper atonement for her fault; and she therefore sought not to check the ravages which grief was making in her health. For seven long years did the Colonel watch over the failing strength and minister to the daily comforts of her whose heart was buried in the grave of another. She esteemed him, she was grateful to him, she loved him with sisterly affection; but she remembered the thrill which a dearer voice had once sent to her heart, and because her husband could awaken none of those fervent feelings of youthful passion, she rejected the peace which might yet have grown up in the calm atmosphere of domestic life, and cherished her unhappiness like a bosom friend. She died at length in her husband’s arms, lamenting, when too late, the weakness and morbid sensibility which had led her to waste her life in pining after unsubstantial bliss, when true contentment might have been the daily companion of her existence.

It was after this sad termination of his first attachment that Colonel Middleton met with the beautiful Rosa Crafts. Younger in feelings than in years, he had never drank from the pure fount of reciprocal affection; he had been loved where he could offer no return; he had loved where no answering fondness became his reward; and though past the age of romance, he yet thirsted for the sweet waters of mutual tenderness. But with all his genius, his tact and his experience, he was a mere tyro in his knowledge of woman. No man has ever deeply understood the peculiarities of woman’s nature until the intimate communion of wedded life has given him an insight into its mysteries; no man has ever been qualified to portray the many-colored varieties of female character, unless an intelligent and amiable wife has been the mirror that reflected, or, at least, the telescope which brought near to his view the minute traits which alone can give _truthfulness_ to the picture. The beauty of the stately Rosa had fascinated Colonel Middleton, and having ascertained, to his satisfaction, that no one occupied a prior place in her affections, he never thought of the possibility that she was incapable of loving; it never occurred to him that the temple might be unoccupied only because the portals were too narrow to admit an object of worship.

Aided by her mother, whose skill in reading character was very great, Rosa adapted herself with inimitable skill to the fancies of the rich Colonel Middleton. The little personal vanity which had lurked unsuspected in his bosom, was fanned into a gentle flame by her adroit flatteries, and could not fail to throw additional light upon the lovely woman who seemed to forget the homage due to her own charms in her admiration of her new friend. Though timid almost to nervousness when on horseback, she was ready every morning for a ride with him; though far too indolent to love walking, she never declined a ramble with the enthusiastic lover of nature; though delighting in gorgeous colors and an _outré_ style of dress, she affected almost quaker-like simplicity as soon as she learned his taste in this respect; passionately fond of waltzing, she became a perfect prude after she heard his opinion of it; and even her habits of coquetry, which had become almost a second nature to her, were exchanged for gentle reserve and modest self-possession when his eye was upon her. But the master-stroke of policy was that which induced him to believe her endowed with intellectual gifts.

Cousin Grace, of whom Rosa had spoken so contemptuously, was the orphan daughter of Mrs. Crafts’ only sister, and for several years she had been the inmate of her aunt’s family. A small income, which she derived from her patrimony, rendered her independent, and she resided with her aunt simply because she could claim no other eligible home. But her early education had made her very unlike her present companions. Truth and piety were the leading traits of her character; industry, contentment and kindliness were the daily practice of her life. Without making any ostentatious display of her religion, she made it the rule of her conduct, and therefore it was that, though she occasionally mingled in the gay scenes in which Rosa delighted, she never allowed herself to become involved in any of the schemes of her beautiful cousin. Her kindness of heart led her to feel sincerely attached to Rosa, in spite of her faults, and her humility prevented her from dreaming of rivalship, although, if seen any where else than at the side of so brilliant a beauty, Grace might have charmed by the placid and child-like sweetness of her countenance. Her retiring manners and timid reserve in society prevented many from learning the full value of her mental gifts, but to the few who knew her intimately, she appeared a creature of rare endowments. Grace had not been blind to the arts which were practised to attract Colonel Middleton, but, looking upon him as fully qualified, both by age and experience, to take care of himself, she felt some little amusement at the manœuvres of her aunt and cousin, until a knowledge of his past history, together with the discovery of his high-toned feelings, excited a deeper interest in his welfare. Henceforth she watched the plans of her cousin with something like regret; but regret unmingled with any selfish feeling, for Grace, with all her gentleness, had a proper sense of the dignity of her sex, and did not think that _marriage_ was absolutely essential to a woman’s respectability. The affair was still in suspense when Grace received a summons to attend a sick friend in her native village, and departed for an absence of some weeks, while Rosa remained to complete the conquest of the amiable Colonel.

One morning, on entering the parlor at his accustomed hour for their ride, Colonel Middleton found neither Mrs. nor Miss Crafts visible, and throwing himself on a sofa, he awaited their appearance. As he took his seat, he observed a book peeping from under one of the cushions. It was most _judiciously_ placed, for had it been lying on a table, he never would have thought of opening a volume whose form and binding bore such a marvellous resemblance to an _album_. But the slight mystery connected with it—the fact of its being _half hidden_—excited his curiosity, and he busied himself in inspecting its varied pages. He found it to contain some very beautiful pencil drawings, a few exquisitely colored miniature likenesses, and various short poems. There was no name in the volume—nothing by which he could identify the owner—but he soon found that the drawings were all by one person, and he began to suspect that so delicate a pencil had been held only by a _poet’s_ hand. He remembered some expressions which had fallen from the lips of the lovely Rosa only on the previous day; he took from his pocket-book a little note, beautifully written on rose-tinted paper, which he had received from her a short time before; he compared it with the poems; the round, clear Italian characters were the same in both, and, with a thrill of delight, the Colonel at once admitted the belief that the beautiful object of his regard was as gifted as she was lovely. Forgetting the prolonged delay of her appearance—a delay designed to afford him ample opportunity of satisfying his curiosity—his eyes wandered eagerly over the volume. He was still more charmed, however, when, on one of the last pages in the book, he met with a pencil sketch of himself. There was no mistaking the likeness; it was a most spirited head, and the features were his own. For a moment the Colonel was elated to almost boyish glee, and could scarcely refrain from pressing to his lips this precious proof of Rosa’s feelings.

At that critical moment, Mrs. Crafts and her daughter entered the room. A slight blush—a modest dropping of her fringed eyelids, betrayed the surprise of the _artless_ Rosa as she observed the Colonel’s occupation.

“Pray, who is the author of these beautiful sketches?” he asked, as soon as he had paid his respects to the ladies.

A look of maternal pride on the one side, and of girlish diffidence on the other, was exchanged between mother and daughter, but no reply was made.

“Are the poems by the same hand as the drawings?” said he, still retaining his hold of the volume, which Rosa gently strove to take from him.

A timid “yes” was uttered by the beautiful girl, while her mother, pretending to hear a summons from an _invisible_ servant, _judiciously_ left the room. Colonel Middleton drew Rosa to a seat beside him, and, as he clasped her hand in his, exclaimed—

“Dear, dear Rosa, do you mean to monopolize all the choicest gifts of Heaven? Look here,” pointing, as he spoke, to his own portrait in the volume, “and tell me if I may dare to hope that your own heart was the mirror which reflected these features?”

Rosa uttered a faint cry, and, overpowered with shame, hid her face on the arm of the sofa, while her white neck was suffused with a deep red hue that might easily have been mistaken for a blush. The Colonel was overpowered; his foible was a desire to be the first and only object of affection to a woman’s heart, and he could not doubt that he had now attained his hopes. A passionate expression of his feelings and a proffer of his heart and hand were the only evidences of gratitude which he could bestow on the gentle girl. What a fine piece of acting was Rosa’s gradual return to self-possession! The blushing timidity with which she listened to his passionate tenderness, her delicate dread lest his discovery of her _secretly cherished_ attachment should be the motive of his present offer, and, finally, the modest yet fervent abandonment of feeling with which she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder, while his arm encircled her slender form and his lip imprinted a lover’s kiss on her fair brow, would have made the fortune of a theatrical _débutante_. It was all settled; the album decided the affair, and Rosa Crafts was certainly destined to become Mrs. Colonel Middleton.

But, once sure of her lover, Rosa had no desire to become a wife sooner than prudence required. She could not give up old habits without an effort, and she determined to enjoy her liberty as long as possible, by deferring the period of her marriage. Colonel Middleton busied himself in refitting his beautiful villa on the banks of the Hudson, and during his temporary absences, Rosa obtained many a moment of freedom from restraint. Fortune seemed to favor the wishes of the heartless woman of the world, for ere the time fixed for their marriage had arrived, Colonel Middleton was ordered to take command of his regiment in Florida. He was too good a soldier to hesitate, whatever might have been his disappointment, and the day which should have witnessed his union with his beautiful bride, dawned upon him amid the everglades of that wild and perilous district. Rosa felt his absence as a positive relief. Nothing was easier than to write tender and beautiful letters to her distant lover—nothing more pleasant than to return to society as an affianced bride, certain of a future establishment, and privileged to seek present enjoyment.

“How can you be so attentive to that consummate flirt?” asked a friend, as Captain Sabretash returned from leading Miss Crafts to her carriage after a gay party.

“I have good reason for my conduct, Harry,” was the reply; “she has not a more devoted attendant in society than myself.”

“I know it, and therefore it is that I am surprised at your inconsistency.”

“Inconsistency, Harry! You don’t know me, or you would not think me inconsistent. Can nothing but admiration and love render one watchful? I tell you that never had that woman a lover half so devoted and so observant as myself; but it is with the keen eye of hatred that I watch her every movement; it is the spirit of vengeance which actuates my every attention.”

“It is a queer way of showing hatred. Do you mean to continue such devotion after her marriage with Colonel Middleton?”

“That marriage will never take place, Harry. Think you the noble-minded Colonel would wed her if he knew all that I could tell him? I will not oppose idle words to a lover’s passion, but I will bring him proof such as he cannot doubt of her unworthiness, and thus will I fulfil my revenge.”

Among the admirers whom Rosa drew around her during the Colonel’s absence, was one who excited her peculiar interest. The Baron de Stutenhoff was a Russian, with clear blue eyes, a profusion of long light hair, and also _presumed_ to be in possession of a _mouth_, although his bushy fox-colored mustachios and untrimmed beard rendered the fact somewhat difficult of proof to those who had never seen the gentleman expand his jaws at a supper-table. He was no impostor—no Spanish barber, no French cook, no Italian mountebank disguised _en marquis_. The Baron de Stutenhoff was actually a Baron, privileged to wear the crosses and ribbons of several orders at his buttonhole, and bearing on his cheek a broad and not very seemly scar of a sabre-cut received in honorable combat. He had been captivated with the charms of the beautiful coquette, and she was by no means displeased with the opportunity of flirting with so distinguished a man. He became her constant attendant in society; his habits and tastes assimilated to her own far better than did those of the sensitive and gifted Colonel Middleton, and when he talked, in bad French, of his fine estates, of the rich pomp of Russian life, of the droskas, with their silver bells and lining of costly furs, Rosa could not help wishing that she had not been quite so precipitate in her acceptance of the Colonel’s proposal. Nothing would have suited her vain humor so well as becoming the wonder of some foreign capital—_la belle Americaine_ of some distant land, where Americans were looked upon as savages. She fancied she could behold her resplendent beauty clad in the picturesque attire of a foreign clime, and winning the admiration of kings and princes in the semi-barbaric court of Russia. Her vanity led her into the same labyrinth where she had so often bewildered others, and, without confiding her feelings to her more prudent mother, she determined to mould circumstances to suit her new views of ambition. The Baron de Stutenhoff was a vain man, and of course easily led away by flattery. His title was derived from his long service in the Russian army, since, by a custom of that country, every freeman who has been in active military service during a certain term of years, receives the title of Baron _by courtesy_, whatever be his birth. His villages, of which he boasted so largely, consisted of a few miserable huts, occupied by some twenty or thirty serfs, which had been his patrimony, but which had long since gone out of his possession to pay gambling debts. He was a weak and ignorant man, passionately addicted to play, and, since he had been among the untitled Americans, he had learned to look upon himself as so great a man, that he doubted whether he should honor Miss Crafts with the offer of his hand, or wait for some more distinguished woman to throw herself at his feet. But Rosa was an overmatch for him in acuteness. She managed to give him an idea that she was very wealthy, and then, after bringing him as near to an absolute proposal as suited her views, she determined to take her own time to make a decision. But she was doomed to have her plans developed rather prematurely.

Some one (could it be Captain Sabretash?) informed Colonel Middleton of all that had passed since his departure, and the consequence was that the gallant soldier obtained leave of absence, and unexpectedly returned, having met on the road a most tender and devoted letter from his “ladye love.” On the evening of his arrival in New York, there was a splendid fancy ball, and, without informing any one but Captain Sabretash of his return, the Colonel determined to judge for himself of Rosa’s conduct. Accompanied by the Captain, he entered the ball-room early in the evening, and, by dint of a bribe, obtained the privilege of occupying a nook in the orchestra, from whence he could see without being seen. Almost the first person that met his eyes was his delicate and modest Rosa, whirling through the giddy waltz in the arms of the tall Russian. His auburn beard mingled with her dark tresses, as her head almost rested on his breast, and his eyes were bent with a most insulting expression upon the graceful form which reclined in his embrace. Rosa little dreamed of the fierce glance which watched her every movement as she practised her fascinating arts upon the delighted Baron. She little knew that the quick ear of another had caught the offensive and libertine words to which she had listened in silence, and excused as “only the freedom of foreign manners”—as if true _gentlemen_ of _every_ land did not always respect the _modesty_ of women. She little suspected that he whom she believed to be exposed to the bullet of the lurking Indian was suffering a wound scarcely less severe in the crowded and glittering ball-room.

It was at this moment, when the proud and sensitive Colonel Middleton was fully convinced of her levity of conduct, that Captain Sabretash determined to make known to him her utter heartlessness.