University of Virginia Library

40. CHAPTER XL.
FURTHER PARTICULARS.

When George Willoughby left Boston with his
father, in December, one thousand eight hundred
and eleven,[1] he carried with him the unguarded
heart of Sophia Palmer, but was altogether unconscious
of the prize. Sophia drooped in despondency,
without communicating the cause of
her unhappiness. All the effects of her unfortunate
passion were accurately described by herself
in the foregoing chapter. Her parents were
alarmed at the change in the disposition of their
youngest daughter, but had no suspicion of the
real cause. They attributed it to the same constitutional
languor which appeared to affect her
sister, and applied physical remedies. On the
following summer their anxious father took them
both to Ballston, in the state of New-York, to
try the efficacy of the waters; but, after continuing
there a month, perceived no change for the better
in the health of his darling girls. It was here
that he received a private account of the battle of
Maguago, in which ensign Willoughby was reported
to have been slain. The alarming effects
which this intelligence produced on the mind of

Sophia betrayed the secret wound which was rankling
in her bosom.

Previous to this, a rich German, with whom
they became acquainted at the springs, had declared
himself her admirer. His name was
Kreutzer; he was a merchant of some eminence
in the city of New-York, and though old
enough to be the father of Sophia, found a powerful
advocate for his suit in her avaricious parent.

Sophia, however, continued peremptory in rejecting
the addresses of such a lover, while she
could cherish a hope connected with the object of
her ardent attachment. But all hope was annihilated
by the account of his death; and, incessantly
harassed by the importunities of the lover, the
expostulations of her father, and the intreaties of
all her friends, spiritless and almost broken-hearted,
she at length yielded a reluctant consent to
become the wife of Kreutzer, who led her, a passive
victim, to the hymenial altar. A few weeks of
a kind of negative enjoyment succeeded this legal
prostitution, when a letter from Boston undeceived
her with respect to the death of George Willoughby,
and plunged her at once into a gulf of wretchedness
and despair. Filled with unavailing regret
for the precipitancy of the step she had been
induced to take, she grew unguarded in giving
utterance to her feelings, and thus at once embittered
the felicity of her doating husband, and rendered
her own life completely miserable.

Acquainted with the world, and well versed in
the study of human nature, Kreutzer soon perceived
sufficient grounds for believing that he
had gained a hand without a heart. A spirit of
jealousy succeeded, and many were the anxious
hours he passed in watching the movements of

his wife, while she believed him to be engaged
abroad.

His suspicions, however, were rapidly declining
for want of any food that could yield them
support, when she unfortunately saw the object
of all her thoughts at the theatre. The passion
which had been smothering in her bosom without
a breath of hope to revive it, now kindled
like lightning to an irresistible blaze, fed by a
whirlwind of unhallowed wishes. The few seeds
of virtue that had been scattered on the surface
of her uncultivated mind, were now swept like
chalf before the tempest of passion, and totally
disappeared. Sophia was resolved to fall.

In forming this fatal resolution, she displayed
some symptoms of embarrassment that did not escape
the notice of her husband. These, with
some subsequent “trifles, light as air,” induced
him to resort to an old, and hitherto unsuccessful
plan. He was under a previous engagement to
visit a sick friend at Westchester, on the following
day, and at ten o'clock took leave of his wife
for that purpose. Instead, however, of leaving
the house, he ascended, unperceived, to his study,
adjoining the apartment to which Sophia was
confined under the plea of indisposition. With
all that followed the reader is acquainted.

Our hero passed the remainder of the day in
solitude and uneasiness. At one moment he condemned
theatrical establishments as the primary
cause of all human misery; in the next he upbraided
himself for acquiescing in so mysterious
an assignation. A train of calm reflection, however,
soon convinced him that neither the theatre
nor himself were in fault; that the lovely, the
frail Sophia alone was culpable, and she alone

deserved to suffer. But was her fault commensurate
with its punishment? Was not her crime
involuntary? Could she help loving him?

George pitied, but could not excuse the unfortunate
fair one whose crime consisted not in loving
him, but in deceiving her husband and harboring
thoughts in her bosom inimical to virtue
and his honor; in passively yielding to an
enemy, instead of resisting and opposing him.
There is no sin in being tempted, for the Saviour
of the world was “tempted at all points as we
are,” and was yet without iniquity; the sin consists
in yielding to, instead of opposing, the passion
which tempts us.

Sophia could and ought to have avoided instead
of seeking an interview so hostile to her
peace—so hazardous to her honor. She had
plighted her nuptial faith in the presence of Heaven,
and if this had been done while she knew that
her heart was not in her disposal, the sacrifice of
feeling to duty was the least atonement she could
make for the crime. “It was a grievous fault, and
grievously Sophia has answered it.”

Such were the reflections which naturally arose
in the mind of George, and warranted him in acquitting
both himself and the theatre of all blame
respecting the event he lamented. He felt the
liveliest gratitude to Heaven for his own “deliverance
from evil”—his rescue from a temptation
that had convinced him of the frailty of his nature.
He had been providentially snatched from
the brink of a precipice to which he had been unwittingly
and innocently drawn, and on the dizzy
verge of which he had actually tottered.

Grateful for the interposition to which he owed
his safety, and well aware that his interference

would not tend to soften the rigor of Sophia's
fate, he resolved to prosecute his journey, and
leave the event to Providence. His anxiety,
however, to ascertain the state of her health,
would not permit him to leave the city without
first seeking another interview with her husband;
and he accordingly, on the third day, dispatched
a servant of the Hotel with a letter containing
his address, and a request that Kreutzer would
favor him with a few minutes conversation at his
lodgings. But the messenger returned without
delivering the note, stating that the house was
shut up, and the family removed to the country.
After spending the whole day in fruitless inquiries
respecting the place of their destination,
he relinquished the pursuit, and on the following
morning departed for Washington.