“Her name is May—a young, pretty widow; though, on my soul, Effie—why I declare, now I look at you, you are almost as handsome as ever; if it was not for her money, she might look further for a husband. But come, I am in a hurry; I want you to sign this paper, pledging yourself to leave the city never to return, upon which condition I also pledge myself to give you a thousand dollars—will you sign it?”
“I will,” answered Effie; “but I require a witness.”
“A witness—nonsense! well, bring up the old woman, then.”
“It is not necessary—here is one,” said Effie, advancing with a firm step to the inner door, and throwing it wide.
“Severe in youthful beauty,” Florence came forth.
Had a thunderbolt suddenly fallen from heaven, Crayford could not have been more paralyzed. Florence paused upon the threshold.
“Go!” said she, waving her hand, “go, Mr. Crayford, this innocent girl is under my protection. I have heard all—I know all—begone, sir!”
And, incapable of uttering one word, the guilty wretch, awed by the majesty of virtue, stole away as a fiend from the presence of an angel.
The over-tasked firmness of poor Effie now gave way; and piteous it was to witness the agony of her grief and shame.
“Poor, unhappy child!” cried Florence, taking her to her bosom, and tenderly soothing her, “you have been basely, cruelly dealt with! Heavens! I shudder when I think what my fate might have been but for this discovery!”