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.
“I have _that_ to tell to which you must listen now, Colonel Middleton,”
said he, when the betrayed lover would fain have deferred his
communication; “now, while your eye is darting fire upon the false woman
who has made you the tool of her mercenary schemes. Listen to me now,
ere the voice of the syren charm you into forgetfulness of what you
behold. Five years ago I had a sister—my only one—a gentle, loving
creature, with little beauty, but a heart filled with every good
feeling. She was wooed by one whom I esteemed and approved; she loved
him, and they were betrothed to each other. But Adeline went into the
country on account of my mother’s ill health, and during her absence,
her lover fell into the way of Rosa Crafts. They met at a fashionable
watering-place, and, though struck with her beauty, he remained proof
against all her ordinary fascinations, until her pride became piqued,
and she determined to make him sensible of her attractions. Some fool
among her danglers offered a wager that she would not succeed; she
accepted the wager, and though she knew of his engagement to another,
she deliberately set herself to the task of robbing his affianced bride
of his affections. When did an unprincipled woman ever will any thing
which she did not accomplish if she scrupled not the means? She
succeeded. Adeline was neglected, and, for a time, forgotten. She pined
in solitude for the accustomed tenderness which had become the nutriment
of life to her young heart, but she received it not. At length came a
letter; her lover, overcome with shame and remorse, but led away by his
fatal passion, wrote her a wild, incoherent letter, full of penitence
and sorrow, but still designed as a renunciation of his plighted faith.
He broke his engagement with Adeline, and then offered his hand to his
new mistress. Need I say that Rosa Crafts rejected his love and won her
wager? I was absent at the time, and when I returned Adeline was dying
of consumption. I watched beside her till I saw her laid within the
tomb, and then I sought for vengeance on her perjured lover. He refused
to fight me. I disgraced him in the public street by personal
chastisement, and then he was obliged to meet me. We fought with pistols
at twelve paces—I shot him through the body.”
Captain Sabretash paused, overcome by his emotion. “Five years have
passed since then,” he resumed, “and I have haunted the steps of that
woman in hopes of yet seeing her humbled to the dust. Talk of _harmless
flirtation_! My buried sister, my murdered friend, my own blood-stained
hand, can bear witness to the innocence of what the world calls
_harmless_ flirtation!”
Colonel Middleton listened in silence. He felt that the Captain had
uttered nothing but truth; yet when he thought of her intellectual
gifts, her exquisite beauty, her inimitable grace, his heart sunk within
him, for how could falsehood dwell with so much perfection?
“Ask Grace Leydon!” continued Captain Sabretash; “ask Grace Leydon if I
have told you a word more than the simple, unvarnished truth.”
“How may I believe the one when thus compelled to doubt the other?”
asked the Colonel.
“Doubt Grace Leydon!” exclaimed his companion, “why you might as well
doubt the existence of the sun in heaven. She is all truth—all purity.
Surely you must have seen enough of her vestal-like life to know that if
ever there was a true-hearted woman upon earth, it is she. If Rosa
Crafts had but half the mental graces and moral virtues of her cousin
Grace, she would be an angel.”
Colonel Middleton _did_ ask Grace Leydon; but not till long afterwards.
His decision of character forbade him to grieve over an unworthy object,
and the moment Rosa ceased to be the noble-minded being he had imagined
her, he ceased to cherish his affection for her. An interview,
characterized on his part by grave earnestness and sad remonstrance, and
on hers by flippancy and heartlessness, terminated all intercourse
between the beautiful Rosa and her high-minded lover. In less than three
weeks after the rupture between them, Baron de Stutenhoff had the
satisfaction of leading to the altar the “belle of the season;” but long
ere the honey-moon was over, he learned, to his great chagrin, that the
anticipated riches of his bride were to be found somewhere in the
vicinity of his own large estates in dream-land. A quarrel was the
immediate result of the discovery, and while the noble Baron betook him
to the life of a “Chevalier d’Industrie,” travelling from city to city,
the brilliant Rosa was compelled to return to her mother’s dull country
residence in the character of a deserted wife.
Colonel Middleton _did_ ask Grace Leydon; after he had learned that she
was the _true_ author and owner of the gifted volume which Rosa had
falsely claimed, after he had awakened from his dream of beauty to a
sense of purity and sincerity, after he had learned the value of a
truthful spirit and a loving heart, he asked Grace Leydon to share his
future lot in life, and she became his wife—his happy and noble-minded
wife—carrying into the home of her husband the talents and the virtues
which had been the solace and resources of her hours of loneliness.
* * * * *
DEATH.
BY MRS. C. H. W. ESLING.
Death came to a beautiful boy at play,
As he sat ’mong the summer flowers,
But they seem’d to wither and die away
In their very sunniest hours.
“I have come,” in a hollow voice, said Death,
“To play on the grass with thee;”
But the boy look’d frighten’d, and held his breath,
In the midst of his childish glee.
“Away, away from my flowers,” he said,
“For I know, and love thee not”—
Death look’d at the boy, and shook his head:
Then slowly he left the spot.
He met a maiden in girlhood’s bloom,
And the rose on her cheek was bright,
And she shuddered, as tho’ a ghost from the tomb
Had risen before her sight.
She stood by the brink of a fountain clear—
In its waters her beauty view’d,
When Death, with his haggard face, drew near,
And before the maiden stood.
“Fair damsel,” he said, with a courtly pride,
“To thee I this goblet quaff,”
But she turned with a buoyant step aside,
And fled with a ringing laugh.
He journey’d on, where an old man sat
On the trunk of a worn-out tree—
A poor old man—for his held-out hat
Was a symbol of beggary.
Death drew quite near, till the old man’s eyes
Were raised to his wrinkled face;
With a frighten’d look of wild surprise,
He rose from his resting-place.
“I come to succor,” Death mildly said,
But the old man would depart—
Again he look’d, and shook his head,
For he knew full well his mart.
“They all of them, shuddering, turn away—
The boy in his childish glee,
The maiden young, and the old man gray:
Yet they all shall come to me.”