Feigning to be charmed with the locality of this little town, they made known their intention of passing several weeks in its vicinity. But why enter into the details of a plot such as should call down the avenging bolt of heaven. Suffice it, alas! to say, that sin and villainy triumphed, and as pure a child as ever the finger of God rested upon, was enticed from her home, from her poor old doting grandparents.
Under a solemn promise of marriage the unfortunate Effie eloped with her base betrayer.
Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home, thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was very sure could not be more happy.
This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so young and so beautiful.
The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing, and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a fate worse than death!
Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.
All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont. But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men; no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.